Mordor
by Protector of Silence
Summary: This is the story that Tolkien never told: the tale of the orcs of Mordor, of their society, and of their trials in and after the War of the Ring, as they struggle to maintain their hopes and ideals, even while their world comes crashing down around them
1. Chapter 1

**Book the First**

**Dorezátz**

**-**

**I**

**Sheglock**

It was dawn, and as the sun crept slowly over the horizon, the entire sky glowed with a fiery orange. Slowly the luminous orb drifted higher into the sky, and the shadows of night receded. Light once again illuminated the desolate plains of Gorgoroth. Above the plains was a dazzling display of colour, as the clouds shifted from subtle hues of pink and orange to calm, tranquil blue. The two orcs paused for a minute, their attention briefly diverted by the fantastic display.

Ulûrk was the first to look away. But his companion, Sheglock, remained fixated on the spectacle.

"Another dawn," he said, not to anyone in particular, as he stared toward the east.

"Seen one, seen 'em all," Ulûrk grunted. "Now c'mon, we gotta get some thin' for breakfast!"

"Dawn's my favourite time of the day," Sheglock commented, oblivious to Ulûrk's impatience. "It's when the night ends – after the darkness there is a light… The start of another day, full of opportunity, brimming with potential…"

Ulûrk had been, in fact, listening. Though he often mocked Sherlock's "deep sayings", as he called them, he occasionally seemed interested in what his companion was thinking. And he loved to dispute it.

"But the sun always sets," he pointed out. "And ya get night after the day."

Sheglock was slightly surprised, as though the comment had not been intended to illicit a response.

"They say life is a circle," was all he said. Ulûrk let out a harsh guffaw.

They turned away from the rising sun, and continued toward the village centre. Sheglock took one last glance back at the sunrise. The sun was higher in the sky now, and the sky was a soft light blue. He sighed, then followed Ulûrk to the west.

The town of Garkhôn was busy, but not more than expected. Everywhere the traders were displaying their wares. Shouts rang out from every direction as each merchant tried to prove that his wares were the best.

Ulûrk marched straight past them toward the plaza in the centre of town. He then abruptly turned and walked up to a nearby merchant. He kept his eyes straight ahead, ignoring the commotion to either side. Long ago, it seemed to Sheglock, he had determined bluntness was the best way to get what he wanted.

"What d'ya need?" The merchant growled. "Grub? Mine's the best – straight from the ranch. Nice and fresh too."

"I've bought meat from ya' before, and ya overpriced it by a lot, let me tell ya. Now I'm not gonna pay ya more than a coupla these ole rusty knives here–" he pulled two grimy knives from his pocket "–'less ya give me _quality_."

There _was_ a currency in the country of Mordor, consisting of silver and gold coins engraved with the Eye, but many orcs preferred to simply trade goods. Sometimes using money simply complicated things too much, and Sheglock knew that some peasants were too stupid to make change. Thus merchants rarely demanded money from buyers, and consequently seldom had enough to pay taxes. Sheglock sighed – the whole situation was just so stupid that it was frustrating.

"That junk ain't gonna buy ya' any o' my grub," the merchant retorted.

"Be reasonable! Ya know that ya need customers, cause ya can't eat all of that yerself. Look 'ere. Ya give me twice as much o' yer crap as ya did last time, and I'll give ya a nice ole helmet that I forged a coupla days ago."

The merchant did his best to seem uninterested. "Twice as much?"

Ulûrk sensed he was winning. Sheglock knew what would happen next. He'd seen it a hundred times. Ulûrk would threaten to walk away, and the merchant would break down and give him what he wanted. Funnily enough, it worked every time, though by now most the town was savvy to the trick. Sheglock thought the effectiveness arose from the fact that, if the merchants refused, Ulûrk really _would_ walk away. He was not one to make empty threats.

"Yer not takin' it? Fine? I'm outta here, and I'll find some other guy who ain't so stupid!"

Sheglock sighed and turned away. He'd seen this enough. He decided it was a better use of his time to look around. Waving to Ulûrk (who didn't see him), he turned away from the booth toward the central plaza.

The small tiled square was packed with people. Everyone was trading their handicrafts for food. It was one of the only ways to get food in Mordor, unless you raised the animals on your own. Game was scarce in the stony, barren plains.

As he wandered around, looking, a merchant yelled over to him. "Hey, you! Yer clothes look kinda shabby. D'ya wanna brand new coat? I'll trade it fer some meat."

By the time he had finished speaking he had pushed his way through the crowd and stood right in front of Sheglock. Sheglock groaned.

"No, I do not!" he said as the merchant continued to follow him.

"Ya sure?"

Sheglock stopped. "Yes." he said emphatically.

"Sure?" the orc with the coats asked again. Sheglock didn't answer, and the sales-orc gave up. When he was gone Sheglock let out a sigh of relief.

He continued on, eventually reaching the small well in the centre of the plaza. There was a queue forming around it. Thinking he might as well do some thing useful, Sheglock grabbed a bucket. But, before he had even made it to the end of the line, he was distracted by a commotion near one of the booths.

"Thief!" the orc inside one of the meat-booths yelled, pointing his finger at a hunched, running figure. Two passers-by grabbed the unfortunate thief and threw him to the ground. The shopkeeper angrily marched over to him and glared down at him, fire in his eyes.

"Give it back!" he roared. Too willingly the offender obliged, flinging the large hunk of illegitimately gained meat back at the shop owner. It hit him spot-on in the face with a wet smack.

Everyone in the square (who had all, of course, been distracted by the scene and been watching expectantly) froze. People were illegally killed often for offences less serious than this. The tension and excitement almost was tangible.

However, those in favour of bloodshed were sorely disappointed. Rather than get angry, the shopkeeper laughed, a harsh guttural sound.

"So eager to give it back, aren't ya. Now ya've been caught, it ain't worth it no more. You'll see, that's a lesson all orcs gotta learn. Yer life ain't worth a grimy piece o' meat. Or is it?" He suddenly glared at the thief, who had been immobilised on the ground, clearly afraid for his life. Though his fear had gradually diminished, at those last words it returned in full measure. He cringed, arms instinctively clasping his neck.

"Arms up, scum," the store owner demanded, drawing his sword from its sheath. No one was surprised that he was armed – most people carried their weapons with them. Nor was his anger entirely unexpected, or even, in some cases, unwanted. Sheglock personally just longed for the whole ordeal to end, so that he could return to his house. The town didn't appeal to him.

The thief nervously got up, putting his long arms into the air. The store owner pointed the sword at him.

He laughed again. "Thank yer luck that I'm in a good mood t'day. Yer not worth it."

The thief sighed audibly.

"I'm not finished yet. Ya gotta learn how at use what ya got. Yer born with yer arms, ya gotta use 'em ta help us. Ta help all o' us – our town our society, the country of Mordor – not just yerself. An' if ya don't use 'em right, then I ask ya: why have 'em?"

With almost no warning, he swung his sword over the thief's head and severed his still raised arms at the elbows. The thief yelled and crumpled to the ground as the bloodthirsty crowd let out some whoops and cheers. Several more audacious people laughed.

Sheglock was disgusted. He angrily turned away and started home. He'd go the long way, a few extra miles, just to avoid walking through that crowd. It was just so typical. It seemed that orcs, almost as much as Men, liked to see others suffer. It wasn't so much the punishment that irked him as the reaction. Really, what was entertaining in _that_?

Sheglock sighed and continued down the overgrown dirt footpath.

"That's just how it is," he mumbled to himself in resignation.


	2. Chapter 2

**II**

**Morrick**

Morrick stared glumly out of the scratched glass windows of the small single story house he shared with his younger brother, Sheglock. The house was on a small hill, and from it he could see far across the flat Plateau of Gorgoroth. All across Mordor the day's activities were beginning – orcs everywhere began to work. Some in the distance were involved in a mining operation, using large steel cranes to extract iron ore from the rocks. Others were building something far in the distance – Morrick could only see individuals as tiny dots. What they were building he could not tell.

A motion in his peripheral vision caught his eye, and Morrick turned to look down the road. Sheglock, looking annoyed, was lumbering toward the house. Morrick walked over to the door and opened it.

"You're home, at last! What took so long?"

"I was—" he hesitated.

"Delayed?" Morrick suggested. "Come in. We've still got some time before work, and you can rest and tell me what took so long."

"It was nothing," Sheglock said quickly. Morrick could tell he was trying to hide it.

"Why'd you stay at the market?" he began. With Sheglock it was best to use an indirect approach. He wanted to find out what had happened, and he'd just have to trick Sheglock into telling.

"I know you hate the markets," Morrick continued.

He didn't get any farther before Sheglock interrupted. "I wasn't having much fun there, you know!" he yelled, somewhat frustrated.

"Well, I figured. I thought you avoided it, usually."

"Usually." Sheglock repeated.

"Then why go today? You were with Ulûrk, I take it?"

"Yeah. You know Ulûrk – he's real 'gung-ho' about it all. He loves trading."

"Haggling, mainly," laughed Morrick.

"I call it a threat," Sheglock said.

"I know. And it is. But isn't all economics simply based on the supply and demand? Ulûrk's armour is in short supply. There's a demand on his part – Ul­ûrk's, that is – for food, I'll admit, but there's more supply. I can give you a story to demonstrate."

"Go ahead," Sheglock said unenthusiastically.

"In town say there are twenty merchants all selling meat." Morrick began, unsure whether his brother was even paying attention.

"Is it different?" Sheglock, who was, in fact, listening, inquired. "I know that I'd take Man-flesh over cow anytime."

"For simplicity let's say it's all the same. And nothing desirable either – cow if you want. Anyway, into their midst walks a smith – like Ulûrk. He speaks with the first merchant."

" 'I have here this nice shiny new helmet, and will be willing to barter it for half of your supply of cow-meat.' "

"No," Sheglock interrupted, "The common folk don't speak so well. It likely would be more like 'I've gotta nice 'elmet fer ya if ya gimme 'alf yer cow.' They don't know words like 'barter'."

"Point taken," Morrick replied, laughing. "But you've exaggerated it a lot. They don't speak _that_ poorly. Anyway, I'll finish my story, if you'll allow me.

"Then the merchant considers the offer. 'No,' he says (or 'Nah' if you prefer, I doubt peasants know the word 'no'). 'I ain't gonna give ya this here piece o' meat fer less'n yer new shield, an' that's a bargain.'"

"I think the helmet would be worth more than a shield," Sheglock said.

"It's a very nice shield, if you insist. But I can see what you're doing. By your trifling you ignore the main points of the story altogether. Do you not want to talk?"

"Not particularly. But finish your story."

"Well, it's fiction, you know. And I'm only telling it to provoke a discussion. If you're unwilling to discuss, what of it?"

"Let's hear it, then I'll decide."

"Fair enough," Morrick said, then resumed his impromptu example. He was, of course, inventing the thing as he told it, though he knew where he was head­ed. It was more of a way to get Sheglock started in a discussion. Then, maybe, he would talk about the event that had detained him.

"Well, the smith looks around and sees all the others, and he leaves. He goes up to the second merchant. But the first stops him.

" 'Wait! Aren't ya gonna buy my meat?' he cries. So the smith turns around and he says:

" 'No, lower yer price or I'll give ya nuthin!' So then, of course, the mer­chant prefers the helmet to 'nuthin', and agrees."

"That's not Ulûrk," Sheglock said. "Ulûrk will then add 'Also, gimme yer 'hole cow, not 'alf of it.' "

"Which is perfectly reasonable," said Morrick.

"How!"

"There are still twenty merchants out there. Say the first refused. Finally one would give in and trade the whole cow for the helmet. You need all nineteen others to refuse."

"And if they do?"

"Then the smith could lower his price a little, three quarters of the cow, maybe."

"If they still refuse?"

"They wouldn't _all_ refuse."

"Say they do."

"He could threaten to leave."

"So you admit it's a threat."

"I never said it wasn't. All bargaining is simply a series of threats. Lower your demand or I won't trade you. No, I won't lower it – take it at my price or don't get it. That's what trading is."

Sheglock shrugged. "Perhaps it is – that would explain why I don't trade."

"Then why were you at the town so long?"

"There was an… episode."

"May I inquire of the nature of this, as you say, episode?"

"May you inquire? Why such formal language between siblings?" He laughed a little.

"You're avoiding the question again," Morrick pointed out, catching on in­stantly. His brother was extremely good at not addressing a topic he didn't want to. Unfortunately for Sheglock, however, Morrick knew him too well.

Sheglock shrugged his shoulders in resignation. "Okay. I'll tell you."

"Good." Morrick was somewhat surprised, but still pleased. He sat back and listened to Sheglock's story, which he told in a very fast voice, seeming to want to finish quickly.

"Well, there was a thief who stole a piece of meat. The shopkeeper caught him and knocked him to the ground. He pulls out his sword and says 'Arms up!' Then he threatens to kill him and all that. It was just a grimy piece of meat! Fin­ally he laughs and then chops the thief's arms off!"

"Better than killing him, isn't it?" Morrick asked. When he had heard only the first half of Sheglock's story, he had instantly assumed the thief would be killed. That was the sort of thing that really annoyed Sheglock.

"Still…"

"What should the merchant do differently? Let the thief go and he'll just be back tomorrow. You can try and teach him, but it takes time and hardly does any good. A redeemed thief is also likely to fall to stealing again, especially if his economic situation doesn't improve. Not only must you educate a thief, but also, once he has reformed, you must supply him a good job so he can earn his own food. Tell me, is it the merchant's duty to do so?"

"Yes!" Sheglock said righteously. "It is the duty of every one of us to help our fellow orcs."

Morrick laughed. "Rarely have I heard such a preposterous statement. Re­member how the merchant became involved? The thief stole his meat. This is the only reason he met the thief. Had he never been robbed, he would have never seen the thief. Tell me, is the merchant responsible for every thief he _does not_ see?"

"I guess not." muttered Sheglock, sensing that he was losing.

"Then you say that, _because he was wronged by the thief_, it is the merchant's obligation to help the thief who tried to take from him?"

"I never said that!" yelled Sheglock indignantly.

"But you did, or at least implied it," Morrick told him.

"Well, I… er…"

"—didn't think it out fully." Morrick finished for him. "That is often the prob­lem with your high ideals – they are impractical. Ethics and real life can not co­exist, and if you had any sense you'd choose practicality over morality."

"You make no sense," Sheglock said. "Of course ethics can exist in life!"

"Yet one must make sure they don't interfere with the working of society."

"But I can have a moral code, even if you don't!"

"I never said I didn't have a moral code. If I was strict to my philosophy I'd have to kill every beggar who comes up to me asking for food. They do no good for society. But I ignore them mostly, sometimes even toss them a scrap or bone. What good is that?"

"It helps them to live and maybe someday become profitable members of your society." Sheglock answered confidently, and Morrick smiled. His brother knew how to counter his arguments logically. He was beginning to catch on. Morrick thought a while on what to say next.

"No," he countered after a short pause. "It teaches them to beg. If you can get food by doing no work, why work? They learn better by getting nothing. They may starve, but before that they will likely take up a job, even an unpopular one, if only to get food. Then they are profitable in society."

Sheglock sighed. "You're hopeless," he said glumly.

Morrick smiled. "I just know what I think. You've got to go now – look at the time. We can discuss this later, if you'd like."

"I'd rather not. But don't you have to go to work too? Aren't you 'profitable'?"

"Remember, I'm going to be taking Ulûrk's place – he's quitting to join the army. I guess for now I'm unemployed. But I will be doing good for our society soon, count on that. I just need to finish my training."

"Whatever, you hypocrite," joked Sheglock. "Don't you keep me any longer, or I'll be late to the stables. _Good-bye._"

He marched over to the door, flung it open, and ran out toward their barn. Morrick rolled his eyes as he went over and closed the door. His brother was very amusing sometimes, Morrick had to admit, though his humour was hardly ever in­tentional.

As Sheglock galloped down the road on the family's warg, Merân, Morrick stared out after him, watching. _He'll grow up eventually,_ he thought. _Then he'll see my point of view. I can wait._


	3. Chapter 3

**III**

**Ulûrk**

Ulûrk was in a good mood. That by itself was unusual – he was usually an­noyed about one thing, at least. But as he carried the basketful of meat (he had negotiated further and demanded a basket to carry it all), he could find nothing to be angry about. The meat was heavy – he could have gotten upset about the strain it put on his back. Or he could have been disappointed that he wouldn't be going into town for a few weeks because he had gotten so much. Instead he was elated by his successful haggling at the shop.

He was almost skipping as he ambled up toward his forge. But as he ap­proached he noticed a figure standing near the door. Was it Morrick? No, the stranger was taller than Morrick – and broader around the shoulders. Ulûrk's good mood immediately evaporated. His high spirits were replaced by worry, suspicion, and his usual frustration.

The orc outside his forge waved his sword at Ulûrk as he approached. Ulûrk noted with dismay that he wore a captain's helmet. So he was a military officer, and a high-ranking one too. Ulûrk would need to watch himself – especially as he intended to join the army within the month. And self-control had always been one of his weaknesses.

Ulûrk saluted as he came close enough to see the orc's face, changing his walk to a rhythmical march. "Ulûrk, sir," he grunted as an introduction.

"I am Captain Khentz," the stranger replied. "We – the army, that is – have been looking for Ulûrk. We have a need for his metallurgical services."

Ulûrk was dismayed. This was exactly the sort of thing he didn't need to hap­pen. Right before he joined the army, he would have to turn down a captain's re­quest.

"I'd be glad ta assist in the armed forces," Ulûrk began, desperately trying to figure out how best to explain himself. "But as a _warrior_," he added, "not a smith. I'm resignin' this job, in fact, ta join the army." Ulûrk hoped as he said this that it didn't seem rude. "Is that okay, sir?" he added as a pleasantry.

Captain Khentz laughed. "Now that you mention it, I've actually heard that rumour before!" He seemed to find it an amusing joke. Ulûrk was irked by his complete lack of subtlety "So, you really are enlisting. You'd better watch your­self – you may well turn up in my regiment!"

"So, sir," Ulûrk suggested hesitantly, ignoring the captain's last comment. "Shouldn't ya get Morrick fer this task? He's the one takin' my spot."

"Yes, I should," the captain said sharply, then went on in a stern tone. "But you've gotta learn something about the army. _Never_ advise a super­ior officer. I would have figured that out for myself. Only give your opinion when asked for it."

Ulûrk was annoyed. "Yessir," he snapped testily, the syllables coming out much sharper than he intended. Captain Khentz glared at him.

"Watch your temper! I'm not sure you're ready for the army."

_I assure you that I am!_ Ulûrk thought. But he restrained from actually saying it. This was not the right orc to pick a fight with.

Captain Khentz seemed to know what was on Ulûrk's mind. "We will see," he laughed. "I'll go and speak to this Morrick. And you can go and—" he paused and gave Ulûrk a contemptuous glance, "—join the army. Good day."

And at that he walked briskly away. Ulûrk stood still, insulted, unsure how to respond. Eventually he gave up, shrugged, cursed under his breath, and entered the forge to start his work.


	4. Chapter 4

**IV**

**Morrick**

Morrick was impatient. Sheglock's innocent parting comment had stung more than he expected. He knew his brother had not meant to taunt him, but the fact was still there. Morrick was contributing nothing to his society. And he began feeling restless within minutes of Sheglock's departure.

So, naturally, he was relieved when he spotted a figure walking briskly up toward his house. The approaching orc walked swiftly but proudly, not looking down, as most other people often do, but rather straight ahead. He was wearing full armour, with the long sword at his side clearly visible. As he drew closer Morrick noted the intricate engravings on the sheath. He also saw the captain's badge pinned on the helmet, just beneath the red Eye. He rushed over to the door to meet the guest outside – as he felt his house too cluttered to make a good first impression on the officer.

"Greetings, sir!" Morrick called as the captain made the final strides up the hill. "What brings you out here? Is it the incident at town?"

By the time he had finished speaking, the orc was in front of him.

"I am Captain Khentz. And, no, I come for a reason unrelated to the theft."

"My concern was not the theft, sir, but rather the justice done."

"Be assured that Sauron's court has deemed the action inappropriate and un­befitting of the crime. The merchant was arrested. I saw him as I passed through town, hanging in the stocks."

"Good, sir. I hope that lawfulness should always prevail in Mordor.

"It shall," he answered confidently. "But I haven't yet explained to you the reason of my visit. Are you Morrick?"

"Yes," Morrick answered somewhat hesitantly. He was unnerved that the captain, who he had never spoken to before, knew his name.

Captain Khentz must have sensed Morrick's discomfort, because he quickly added, "I met your friend Ulûrk at the forge just an hour ago."

Morrick was no less apprehensive. He had still not explained his motives for coming here.

"And Ulûrk led you here, sir?" Morrick asked with strained politeness. He had a hunch he was being asked for his services. And, as much as he always told everyone how important service was, he still wanted to choose _how_ he would serve.

"We need a blacksmith," Captain Khentz said, his curt voice confirming Morrick's suspicion. It was not as bad as he had expected, as Morrick had feared he would be drafted as a soldier, but he would still rather practice his craft at his hometown of Garkhôn.

"I'm new to this trade," Morrick said. It was a lame excuse, Morrick knew, and reprimanded himself instantly for making it. No doubt the captain would as­sume he was trying to avoid doing his due to Mordor and the great Eye. The Captain must have indeed assumed something of that manner, as his friendly de­meanour instantly evaporated, and he glared icily at Morrick.

"Are you trying to evade Sauron's call to duty?" he accused.

"No, sir—" Morrick said, appalled. But Captain Khentz cut him off before he could defend himself.

"Are you not loyal to the great Eye?"

"Of course I am, and—"

"Then why are you trying, with idiotic complaints and illegitimate excuses, to avoid doing your job for our country?"

"I'm not avoiding it!" Morrick cried. First Sheglock had called him a hypo­crite, and now this captain had implicitly done so as well, and Morrick was getting angry. His anger was even more fervent because the allegation was not entirely untrue. Morrick resolved, after this, to try and be more loyal.

But he did not think he could really aid Sauron, nor anyone, as a smith, con­sidering that he had just begun the job. The captain was still glaring at him, so Morrick added, "I'm merely saying that I'm probably not the best orc for the job."

"Are you capable?" Captain Khentz asked.

Morrick considered it. Probably he was, as he had finished with his training. "Yes."

"Then you're the _only_ one for the job. All our agents are off searching for 'Shire' and 'Baggins', wherever they are."

"Point taken," snapped Morrick. "Would you mind telling me what exactly the job entails, and how long it will take?"

"No, I wouldn't," he answered calmly, ignoring the rude and sarcastic tone of the question. "We have word that there are rebels in the city of Alzág, in Dore­zátz, a province in the north-eastern portion of the country. They have, for al­most a year now, neglected to pay their due in taxes to the great Eye of Barad-dûr. Yet we do not deem it appropriate to march with a host of many orcs through the province, and force them to pay by the sword. Primarily, as you know, it is because our relations with Gondor are strained. It is unlikely they will attack us, especially without the Ring, but it still becomes necessary to have a guard along the border at all times. The army is far too busy to meddle in Dor­ezátz.

"There are other reasons we don't want to send the army through Dorezátz. First, there are simply not enough soldiers to do so. Second, because we still hope to have the Dorezátzean cities' allegiance, and do not want to send the wrong message. We do not want to _conquer_ our own cities! But until Sauron gets the Ring, their loyalty may waver.

"We need a small group of orcs – ordinary citizens who are not intimidating – to travel to the city and meet with its leader. Remind the governor of his alle­giance to Sauron, and demand payment. If he pays, return with the money. If not, report him and the other leaders of the city on your return, so that we can arrest them, then using the army, if necessary. Then, hopefully, bereft of their corrupt leaders, the people will return to Sauron. Under­stood?"

"Yessir."

"You will be with a tracker, Firri, and two grunts. The four of you should take the route marked by this map–" he took one out of a pocket and handed it to Morrick, "–and meet with the officials at the city of Creantkor, which I marked, to report your progress. Any questions?"

"Yes, just one. Why do you need a smith?"

"To mend swords and knives if they break. It's wild country out there. The further you travel from Barad-dûr, the weaker Sauron's influence is. You'll be fighting, for sure."

Morrick groaned. "Well, there's no choice."

"No, there isn't," Captain Khentz agreed. He had become more amicable since Morrick's implied acceptance of his offer. "Meet me at the town square at noon to-morrow. I will be there with the rest of your team. And now allow me to depart – as I have business to attend to. Good-bye."

Morrick saluted him, and he acknowledged it with a slight nod. Then he turned and quickly travelled down the hill, leaving Morrick to think over his new assignment.


	5. Chapter 5

**V**

**Sheglock**

Sheglock pulled hard on the reins of his warg as he approached the familiar countryside around the stables. There was no village here – and little organisa­tion. The houses were scattered sporadically. The few houses that were around were of mixed quality. The rest of the landscape consisted of only the gray stones of the barren plains.

Sheglock rode slowly through the familiar countryside. He enjoyed the wind as it rushed by his head. He looked out and saw nothing but the vast plains. Here it felt there were no limits. This was the rural ambience that he really liked.

Too soon he saw the stables loom in the distance. He could tell that work had already begun. He gently pushed his legs into Merân's, and she sped up, carry­ing Sheglock swiftly to his destination.

As he approached, several of his fellow workers waved at him. Sheglock, (unable to wave because he had a firm grip on the reins), acknowledged them with a nod. He liked the sense of camaraderie among the workers. It was so re­markably different from the environment in the army. He still could not fathom why Ulûrk wanted to join.

He rode over and dismounted, tethering Merân to a post. Then, after washing his hands in the trough, he hustled over to his busy co-workers.

The head of the stable, Gortog, took him aside.

"Good to see ya, Sheglock. We're kinda busy, you can tell, so I'll make this fast. One of our wargs is hurt. He was hired by a militant orc who brought 'im into a battle or something' – I don't know. Anyway, 'e returned here just this morning with two arrows in 'im, and the orc who hired 'im dead on 'is back. C'mon, we need help!"

Sheglock, before his boss had even finished speaking, was already heading over to the hurt warg. Gortog clapped his hands. "Always on top o' things, aren't ya?" he said proudly.

Sheglock grunted and leaned closer to the wounded animal, ready to help. He truly liked his job. Here one could really feel he wad making a difference. He liked the feel that he was not only helping society, but himself also. Morrick could never truly understand it. He felt that, in working with animals, he could really help creatures who needed him. In the stables the orcs were adamant about animal rights. People who wanted to hire a warg had to sign a contract that for­bade neglect to the animal whilst she or he was under their care. Bringing the wargs into a battlefield, Sheglock recalled sadly, was forbidden, though the un­fortunate orc who had violated the contract in the case of this hurt warg had def­initely paid the price.

He got up at a request from Gortog for more gauze. As he crossed over to the bandage pile he spotted a figure trudging up the dirt path. The heat waves rising from the ground distorted his (or her, Sheglock thought) form. Sheglock was curious who would bother to walk so far – the closest house was deserted and the town was more than a league away.

"Someone's coming," he informed Gortog as he retuned with the gauze.

"Tell them to tether their warg outside," Gortog responded.

"Well—" he hesitated, "—the orc's walking."

Gortog looked up with an incredulous expression and shrugged. Right then there was a loud rap on the door. The orc, who must have been walking fast, had already arrived.

"Can I see Sheglock?" Morrick's voice came from outside. Sheglock, bewil­dered, went over to the door. Sure enough Morrick, sweating and covered in dust, stood outside.

"What are you doing here!?" Sheglock asked in surprise, stepping aside to let him in. Morrick paused to wipe his brow, and Gortog spoke up.

"I'll get back to our injured warg. You two can talk – the warg's recovering and doesn't need so much attention anymore."

"Good," Morrick said as Gortog walked away. "But I'll need to borrow some wargs soon."

"_Some_ wargs?" Sheglock asked. "We already have one. Isn't she good enough?"

"You keep her. But I'll need one for myself and a few for the rest of our party."

"What party?" Sheglock asked, thoroughly lost. "Start at the beginning."

"That is the most logical place to begin," Morrick admitted.

At that Morrick stopped speaking. Sheglock stood patiently for a while, but after a minute he grew frustrated with his brother. "Well?" he finally asked. "Let's hear your story! Why are you interrupting my work?"

"Do you know Captain Khentz?" Morrick asked at last. Sheglock was con­fused.

"No. What does that have to do with you?"

"I met him. Charming orc, for sure. He gave me a mission."

"But you don't work for him!" Sheglock yelled. "You've every right to re­fuse."

"No," Morrick said, and walked over to the bench. Sheglock followed, and Morrick continued his explanation.

"The troops are all busy guarding the borders. And the spies are concerned only with the words this _gollum_ told us. I can testify to the latter – I've seen it."

"When?" Sheglock asked. He was surprised he hadn't heard about this.

"A long while back. I was accompanying Ulûrk to the market. They told us that there was a commotion down by the fortress. Turns out, they had moved it from Barad-dûr. I'm not exactly sure why, but I think Sauron wanted all of us to see how Mighty he was. They were carrying it all across Mordor, showing everyone. They brought the torture devices, just in case it might drop some more information as it grew wearier. But it was no good. While it was off the Streatcher they kept it in a cage, and all it did was growl and speak to its precious, whoever that was. It was clearly delusional.

"But Ulûrk (and a couple others, the whole town had practically come over) demanded they put it on the device. I can tell from your expression you know about the Streatcher. Anyway, its guards obliged, and strapped its fingers and toes to either end. The townspeople – you know how they are – took turns turn­ing the lever. It was almost pulled apart; I'm surprised its arms didn't pop off!

"All it did throughout the whole ordeal was shriek those two words – 'Shire' and 'Baggins' – over again and again. And that was not the only time. The guards reported they had gotten the same from it at Barad-dûr. You know they have tortures there worse than the Streatcher. And no one knows who or what 'Shire' is, or 'Baggins'. The entire secret police is supposedly attempting to find them. I've even heard that the Nine have joined the hunt. Whatever or wherever 'Shire' and 'Baggins' are, I am sure Sauron will find them soon."

"And you never told me because?"

"I didn't know you wanted to hear about this creature being tortured. The townsfolk were excessively cruel, competing to see who could get it to scream the loudest. You know I appose pointless torture, as I also dislike pointless good deeds, so I saw no reason to tell you about it. And I also didn't want to anger you."

"Thanks, but I still want to _know_." He paused to look around, and when he saw that he was not needed, he went on. "But tell me why you came here? Am I being recruited?"

"Well, yes, I suppose. I thought you'd like to come along. You could have an adventure, go travelling, and explore. Isn't that what you want?"

"When I told you I like to travel, I didn't mean as a soldier. Or a spy."

"Fine," Morrick said, "Don't go. I'll leave it up to you. But if you're coming, tell me tonight; I leave tomorrow."

Sheglock shrugged and did not reply. He ambled back over to Gortog, who was in the midst of bandaging the wounded warg. The other orcs were hustling around in various errands to assist him.

"You done?" he asked, then turned as another orc approached him. "Just a minute," he said to Sheglock.

"Do we have five wargs here fit to go on a long journey?" the orc, whose name was Reltath, asked. "This customer wants to hire five."

"I don't know," Gortog said quickly, cutting him off. "I'm a tad busy righ' now! Sheglock, go back and check!"

Sheglock hurried off to obey. He hastened to the rear of the stable where most of the healthy wargs were kept. It was a dank, cramped room with a strong musky odour. A quiet snarl greeted Sheglock as he pushed open the door. He peered around in the gloom, and, with dismay, found that there were only two wargs in the various stalls.

He left, relieved to be back in the fresh air. He wondered briefly how the wargs could like being in that smelly, stuffy room. Then he realised that they probably did not enjoy being confined there any more than he would. The wargs there would likely be glad for something to do.

"There are two of them in there," Sheglock reported, coming up behind Gortog, "and they look like they could use some adventure."

"Two of 'em?" he repeated, clearly frazzled. "We need five! Your brother requests five!"

"I'll check the other shop," Sheglock offered. The "other shop" was the se­cond stable that Gortog owned. It was located in the north-eastern portion of the town. Gortog had built it several years back to accommodate any townspeople who were too lazy to walk all the way up to his first shop. Beside the incidents of the building collapsing once during construction and then burning down a year later, the operation had been a success. Now over half the wargs were kept in town.

Sheglock, not being a fan of the more urban setting, had opted to remain working in the original location. Many of the other employees, however, had moved over to the new, busier stable. Some of them like Reltath, worked at both locations, alternating with the demand. It seemed to Sheglock that he alone was still loyal to the original site.

Under normal circumstances, Sheglock would have gone far to avoid the town. But Gortog was clearly in no mood to compromise. Sheglock sighed as his master nodded, accepting his offer to go out. He regretted having spoken so rashly.

"Bye," he called to Morrick, waving as he walked over to Merân. He grabbed the reins and she dashed out into the scorching noon sun.

They rode for a while through the country, Sheglock enjoying the wind whip against his face. He pressed his legs into Merân's side, urging her to go faster. Then he yelled, a loud reckless _whoop_ not meant for anyone's ears. It was sim­ply the joy of riding that had him so elated. There was not much more thrilling than tearing through the country at a speed so fast the ground beneath became a blur!

Too soon he arrived at the crossroads. Sheglock stared wistfully down the long open road to the west. This was the road that eventually curved northward, and ran along the Ephel Dúath until it eventually reached Orodruin, the Mount­ain of Fire, and then continued onward to the Black Gate. Sheglock had never been more than two leagues down this road, and as he sat poised on his warg, with a gentle breeze blowing across his skin, he had a sudden desire to follow it. He had always wanted to explore the world. Sheglock loved knowledge, but more than that; he loved _discovery_.

He regretfully turned east and followed the path into the town he hated. How much would he love to escape! As he travelled farther from the crossroad, he suddenly remembered Morrick's offer. Suddenly it did not seem all that bad. Yes, there would be fighting – that was inevitable. But they would be travelling to new places that he had never seen before. Even Morrick, with all his cynicism and cold logic, couldn't spoil that. He knew then – he would go with Morrick, to the ends of Middle Earth if the journey required! It was time to end the mono­tony of everyday life.

Having finally decided, Sheglock felt an unexpected wave of relief. This surprised him, as he had not realised that Morrick's offer had been worrying him. His spirits were lifted in spite of the fact that he saw the roofs of Garkhôn looming ahead of him.

Sheglock rode as quickly as he possibly could through the crowded town, but merchants and other orcs were often blocking the path. Many of them tried to stop him and sell their wares. Cries of "shiny new armour" or "fresh, tasty meat" all blended together into an incessant din. Trying his best to ignore the noise, Sheglock ploughed relentlessly on. _How does Ulûrk _enjoy_ this,_ he wondered in­credulously.

One particularly presumptuous merchant found the gall to stand deliberately in Sheglock's way. He pulled hard on the reins in frustration, and Merân came to stop just a few yards from where the merchant was standing.

"What?" Sheglock demanded, his patience vanishing quickly. The town fre­quently brought out the worst in him.

"Your warg looks 'ungry," the merchant said in an offhand manner, as though commenting on the weather. "Why doncha give 'im a coupla Zerk's Warg Bites. Ya know 'e wants 'em."

"My warg's a she," Sheglock said disinterestedly, trying to push his way around.

"Yummy yummy," he said to the warg, bending over and holding out a dried piece of meat. Merân growled and snapped her teeth at him. Taken by surprise, he fell over and landed hard on his rear.

"Do you realise how ridiculous you look?" Sheglock asked him, dumb­founded, as he rode by. The antics of the desperate merchants never ceased to amaze him.

Sheglock made it the rest of the way through town without event. As he rode up to the new, decorated stables, he reflected on how relieving it would be to get away from all the hustle and bustle of Garkhôn. He had no doubts that he had made the right choice.

As he tethered Merân to the post outside and tossed her a slab of dried pork from his pocket (because she really was looking hungry), Sheglock momentarily forgot why he'd come in the first place. Disconcerted, he went to the fancy panelled door and knocked. He noted that this building's architecture was far superior to that of the original, and that the building was cleaner. It appeared Gortog's Wargs was moving its centre of business to the main town.

The orc who opened the door Sheglock recognised from the old days when everyone worked at the original, and then only, stables. Her name was Tarreu, and she had been one of the first to propose the notion of a second store. She was a real city person, and had moved to the in-town shop once it was ready. Sheglock hadn't seen her in at least four years, and he noticed, with pity, that she had a burn scar down her left arm. No doubt she had received it trying to save some warg during the fire.

"Customer?" she asked, clearly not recognising Sheglock.

"Long time since we worked together, isn't it, Tarreu?" he asked. "But cer­tainly you haven't forgotten me entirely?"

"Oh—" she said, embarrassed. "I do think I know you, but I don't know from where!"

"Friendships really are like flowers," Sheglock said sadly. "They whither un­less you water them frequently. And ours has been broken almost five years."

At this Terreu seemed to suddenly figure out who he was. "You're my old co-worker! The funny guy who avoided the town and spoke in riddles. Only you would think of some weird flower metaphor! What was you name again, Sher­rok?"

"Sheglock," he said laughing, and please that she hadn't forgotten him alto­gether. "But considering, your guess was pretty good."

"What are you doing here? You never come down here!" She was clearly thrilled to see him again.

"Seeing you makes me nostalgic for the old days, when we weren't split in two," Sheglock said. "I rarely come down here because of the town – did you forget how I feel about it? Just a while ago I was assaulted by Zerk and his Warg Bites. It's a disaster!"

"I remember you were like that – you and your brother. I could never get a straight answer out of either of you! By the way, how does he fare?"

"Well enough, I daresay. He's about to take over Ulûrk's role as smith. Or would be, if he hadn't been recruited by Captain – I forget the name he told me."

"Captain Khentz, likely. He's recruiting everyone in these parts. But come inside, and we can talk. There are also some old friends you might want to meet."

Sheglock followed her into the building, which was cleaner and more spa­cious than its rural counterpart. There was fresh, dry straw in the occupied stalls and the floor was paved with cobblestones. Terreu led him over to a table in the corner where another or was lounged with a half-filled jug of ale in his hand.

"Howdy," he said, waving his free hand as they approached. "Heard ya talkin' with Terr at the door. Yer an old employee o' this comp'ny?"

"Sheglock still works here, just in the other store," Terreu said. "Sheglock, meet Breilg, who joined us the year after this place burnt down. Want some ale?"

"No thanks," he replied, then turned to Breilg and shook. "A pleasure to meet you," he said.

"Same t'ya," Breilg replied, then took a long draught of ale. "Sure ya don' wan' some?" he asked at length.

"I'm sure," Sheglock said, laughing.

Just then two other orcs came into the main room. Sheglock recognised them as Jelzan and Uríse, the brothers who he used to work with. He rushed over to them.

"You look just like you did five years ago," Sheglock said, giving Uríse a hug. He did the same to Jelzan, and the latter laughed. "Nice to see you again, Sheglock," he said in his deep voice.

The three of them returned to the table, and Uríse pulled up a few more chairs. Terreu looked around, then clapped her hands.

"Well, it seems everyone's here. So, Sheglock, tell us what _you're_ doing here."

"We need to borrow three wargs," he said. "Morrick needs them for an expedition."

"Did Khentz get him too?" Uríse asked.

"Why does everyone but myself know this guy?" Sheglock wondered aloud.

"He's been buggin' everyone 'bout 'Shire' 'n 'Baggins' lately," Breilg said. "All our forces are 'broad, searchin'. Whate'er the heck 'Shire' is, we oughtta find it soon."

"I'd rather that _gollum_ creature be more clear," Terreu said. "It's the only one telling us about 'Shire'."

"How d'ya think we should've made it squeal?" Breilg asked.

"It's too late now that he's escaped, but did they try fire?" Jelzan asked the group.

"What do you think?" Breilg asked Sheglock.

"Well, I think there were better ways. Torture isn't only cruel, but in this case it isn't working. We should have persuaded him by converting him to our side. Then he'd speak freely."

The brothers both laughed. "Still the peaceful one, eh?" Uríse commented, clearly amused. Terreu smiled.

"You haven't changed at all," she said.

"I might," Sheglock replied. "I'm going to go with Morrick. I reckon we'll do a fair deal of fighting."

"You're leaving?" Jelzan asked in disappointment. "We just got back together!"

"I'll be back in a few months. But you'll have to come visit me out in the country. I can't stand the town!"

Everyone laughed, and for a while the talk passed into lighter topics. They discussed their times together before the company split, and Breilg listened with interest. Sheglock momentarily forgot his obligation to Gortog, lost in their mer­riment. By the time the talk died down, the sun was just slipping over the tops of the Ephel Dúath mountains. Sheglock looked out the one east-facing window in surprise.

"I've tarried here far too long!" he exclaimed in distress. "It is almost night!"

He abruptly got up from the table. He rushed over to the rear of the stables. Quickly he selected three of the wargs who appeared to be in good condition. The others rose for a hurried farewell.

"Nice talking to you again!" they cried after him as he almost ran to the door. He paused to say a hasty good-bye. Then, with increasing anxiety, he mounted his warg. Looking back one last time toward his friends, who had followed him outside and were waving, he rode off into the now empty town. By the time he looked over his shoulder again, the stables, and his friends, had faded into the darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

**VI  
Morrick**

Morrick sighed as he watched Sheglock gallop away on the warg. His brother was very fickle sometimes. Morrick had been sure the adventure would entice him. But for some unknown reason Sheglock had turned it down. As good as he was with predicting the reactions of other people, Morrick was seldom able to predict those of his brother.

Nevertheless, he had expected Sheglock to jump at the opportunity, and was mildly disappointed by his brother's decision to remain at home. Morrick had hoped for at least one familiar companion. Ulûrk would have loved to come, but since he was joining the army, he would be too busy in training. It seemed Morrick would be going to Dorezátz alone.

"Finished!" Gortog yelled at last, getting up from the corner where he had been squatting for most the day. The bandaged warg gave him an appreciative growl. Gortog patted his head before heading over to the bench where Morrick was.

"I 'pologise fer that, sir, but ya see, it was urgent."

"Quite understandable," Morrick said, not at all perturbed by the delay. "It is not a problem."

"Thank ya, sir. Now, ya be wanting five wargs, ya said?"

"Yes. Five or six. There are four of us travelling, but we'll need one or two to carry our provisions."

"You ain't getting' any more than five. I told yer brother five, and he's gonna get ya five."

"That's fine, thank you," Morrick said hastily, not wanting to annoy the shop owner.

Gortog smiled. "Well, it's gonna be awhile, if ya don' mind waitin'."

"No, I'm in no hurry."

"Where ya off ta, anyways?" he asked in curiosity.

Before Morrick could answer, two more orcs walked over and lay down on the opposite bench. Gortog interrupted the talk to introduce them.

"'Ere's a few o' my 'elpers, Reltath and Tergz. Guys, this 'ere's Morrick, Sheglock's brother."

"Nice ta meetcha," the orc introduced as Tergz said, leaning across to shake Morrick's hand.

"Same here," Reltath said.

"A pleasure," replied Morrick.

"So, what are ya doin'?" Gortog asked again.

"I was asked to do a favour for Captain Khentz."

The three orcs groaned simultaneously. "That son of a Dwarf!" Gortog yelled. The expression was a common insult used in Mordor, and less offensive than its counterpart, "son of a Man".

"What did he make you promise?" Reltath asked.

"I'm going to Dorezátz, to try and confirm their allegiance to Sauron. They haven't paid taxes."

"Did Khentz sendja cause he was too busy lookin' fer his purty little ring?" Tergz asked sarcastically. "'E did ta a few o' my pals too."

Instantly Morrick jumped in to defend Sauron. "It isn't right to belittle the Ring, you know. You are correct in your reasoning, but wrong in you disdain. One of our country's greatest strengths is the fact that Sauron can always get the help he needs. Now, we all know, our troops are far to the north, south, east, and west, searching for 'Shire, Baggins'. We have no forces for local disputes. It is only logical to use able citizens."

"But arencha mad thatcha gotta do someone else's crap?" Tergz asked disbelievingly.

"Yes, but I'll still do it. I will not let my personal feelings get in the way of my duty to the country."

"But Sauron ought to find either 'Shire' or 'Baggins' soon!" Reltath said.

"Yes, but it is like looking for a needle in a haystack. My hunch is that 'Shire, Baggins' is a person, most likely a Man. And he (or she, I suppose) could be dead for all we know. The Gollum's knowledge is over fifty years old. Shire Baggins could have given the Ring to someone else, lost it, or thrown it into the sea! Doubtless he was unaware what it was, or he would have challenged Sauron ages ago."

"Ya think the Ring's keeper don't know its strength?" Gortog asked him.

"I'm sure he doesn't. At most he realises it is a 'magic' ring. But he could not know that it is one of the Great rings, and certainly he doesn't suspect that it's the One. Otherwise he would have used it, challenged Sauron, and become enslaved to Him."

"And that's what we _want_?" Gortog muttered incredulously.

"Yes. Men are weak. They lust for strength greater than their own. The Man who yields the Ring will get that might – for a while. But to truly retain it he must challenge Sauron. There cannot be more than one Lord of the Rings. And no Man, at least not any among those of modern Gondor, has the will to defeat Sauron. Gondor is a mere shadow of it's former glory. The line of Kings has ended, and the line of stewards is weak. Only if the heir to Elendil wielded the Ring would I be afraid. But that shall not come to pass!"

"You speak well, and with conviction," Reltath noted, seemingly surprised by Morrick's oratorical skill.

"I speak out of loyalty to Sauron. I trust that the better will win this war. And I've no doubt that Sauron is the better of any Man in all of Gondor today."

"But ya don' know that 'Shire Baggins' is a Man, even if 'e's really a person, like ya suspect. Maybe 'e's an elf!"

"Then perhaps Sauron will take longer and have more difficulty reclaiming It. He has time. But in the end he will. Since the War of the Last Alliance the elves have weakened. They are as useless today as they are evil, and have forgotten how to do anything useful. They waste away, singing beneath the night skies, watching the stars.

"If an elf had it he would likely fear to use it, out of his own self-proclaimed wisdom, inseparable from his folly. He would keep it hidden in some fear of his own weakness, or some recognition of his own diminished being. Maybe he would pass it to one of the elven-kings, though there are few left in Middle-Earth, and the only one I know is Celeborn of Lórien in the west. In time even Lórien will fall, and one king alone cannot hold back the full might of our country.

"But most likely he would forget about it. Do not ask me to fathom the absurdity of the minds of elves, which lack all semblance of sense or reason. They are weak, ailing, losing all connexion to the real world, if ever they had any. And now they are leaving Middle Earth, fading into nothingness. They have long since ceased being concerned in the matters of our world. They would even misplace it – lose it for negligence! I do not think we have to worry."

"Yer pass'nate 'bout this, arencha?"

"Yes. I have a firm belief that Sauron will conquer. And I believe in his cause!"

"I can tell," Gortog said, laughing. "And I agree with ya, mainly. It's getting' late – where's yer brother? Dawdling, I 'spect. Raltath, bring out some ale an' we can talk some more while we wait."

Raltath hurried to the rear of the building and promptly came back rolling a barrel of ale. "This enough?" she asked, to general laughter.

"Too much, I'd say! But we need not use all o' it. C'mon, grab a cup. Let's toast!"

"To Sauron!" Morrick said, scooping some ale from the barrel and holding his cup high.

"To Sauron," they echoed, clinking glasses.

"And to ya, Morrick, fer a safe trip," Gortog said, clinking his glass against Morrick's again. Morrick nodded his head in acknowledgement.

"Thank you," he said. Then he slipped into silence, which lasted several minutes.

"Hey, boss, ya wan' me ta feed the wargs?" Tergz asked at length.

"Yeah, it's getting' late. Ya might as well. And bring a candle. Where is Sheglock?"

Morrick had also been getting increasingly nervous about his brother. Though it was true that Sheglock often would be sidetracked, his tardiness still was troubling. He should have arrived three hours ago. Eventually, Morrick's anxiety prompted him to speak.

"Do you think something happened to him?"

"I can't say fer sure. He coulda gotten lost, I s'pose. This is the firs' time 'e's gone to that shop."

On hearing this, Morrick's worry doubled. "It's his first time!" he repeated.

"Yeah. 'E don' like the town much."

"I know! But what if he's wandering through it, totally confused?"

"No, 'e knows the general direction. And 'e only has ta ask someone."

Still, Morrick's fears were not assuaged. He drank in silence for several minutes.

When Tergz returned from his job, he, Raltath, and Gortog started up a conversation. Morrick did not feel inclined to join. The others seemed to understand and did not try and include him. Morrick simply lay still, staring out the open window down the steadily darkening, deserted path through the empty countryside.

It was at least another hour – the sun had entirely set and the candle had burned more than halfway down – by the time Morrick heard the footsteps of what sounded like several approaching wargs. He could see, in the sliver moonlight, four to five wargs riding up toward the stables. At least one of them appeared to have no rider.

"We've got company," Morrick said, interrupting the conversation. Gortog and Raltath put down their glasses and looked up. Tergz, who had clearly drunk too much, was snoring quietly with his head laying on the table. Morrick stared in surprise – he hadn't even noticed.

"Who is it?" asked Gortog. Just then there was a sharp knock on the door.

"It's past hours," Gortog called out through the window, not even bothering to get up. "We're closed."

There was the sound of approaching footsteps as the visitor walked over to the window. "Sorry I'm late," Sheglock said, stepping into the candlelight from the window. Morrick sighed audibly, relieved.

"Why are ya so late!" Gortog yelled, growing angry. Morrick backed away, having no desire to join the fight.

"I met some old friends, and, well, you know how time flies."

"It didn't fer yer brother 'ere!" he shouted. "'E's been an hour over in that corner there, sick with worry!"

"I'm fine, really," said Morrick, reluctantly intervening on his brother's behalf. Predictably, the owner's rage turned on him.

"Don' ya lie ta me! Ya've been all distracted there, ignorin' us and starin' out that window. Don' tell me yer fine."

"Sorry," Sheglock said apologetically. "I didn't mean to—"

"Don't worry about it," Morrick said. He got up and opened the door for Sheglock. "I was pretty sure that you were fine," he added as his brother stepped inside.

"So?" demanded Gortog (who Morrick found to his surprise was standing right behind him).

"Am I still in trouble?" Sheglock asked. "Morrick's fine."

Gortog grunted. "Well, I suppose it's understandable, at the least. I'm not gonna chastise ya any more fer it."

"Thanks," Sheglock said.

"It's jus' been an 'ectic day," Gortog told him. "Sorry if I overreacted a tad."

"Then maybe it's not the best time to bring up…"

"To bring up what? Now ya _gotta_ tell me!"

"I'm going to be out of town. Maybe for a month, maybe more. But it's for the good of the country of Mordor. I'm going with Morrick."

When he heard this Morrick felt an immense sense of satisfaction. He had believed it was in his brother's best interests (and his own) for Sheglock to come. At once he grabbed his brother in a crushing bear hug.

"You won't be disappointed, I assure you!" he said.

Gortog thought about it for a minute, while Raltath and Tergz ran over to say good-bye to Sheglock. Eventually Gortog grunted again, which Morrick suspected was his way of showing approval.

"I reckon we can get along a coupla months without ya. Yer free ta go."

"Thank you, sir!" Sheglock said. He seemed eager to leave right then, despite the fact it was night.

"Jus' come back as soon as ya can," Gortog told him. "Have ya got the wargs?"

"They're tied to the posts outside."

"Good."

"What do you want for them?" Morrick asked.

"You're the smith now. Got some new swords? My employees are takin' all o' mine fer their salaries. Won't take cash."

"I've got plenty of Ulûrk's stuff lying about the forge. I can drop by with some tomorrow, as we're heading off."


	7. Chapter 7

**VII**

**Sheglock**

Sheglock stared absentmindedly out the window of the house, toward the distant town. It was dawn again, and the sun was not yet visible in the red sky. Sheglock sighed as he watched the few glowing clouds slowly drift over the tops of the silhouetted mountains to the north.

Morrick was still asleep, but Sheglock had been unable to get any rest. His restlessness arose from the fact that, in likely less than an hour, he'd be leaving for more than a month. He looked around again at the sparsely furnished room. Morrick, snoring gently, was lying on one of the room's two beds. The unusual little table that Ulûrk had bought for them – it must have been years ago – was still looking out-of-place in the corner of the room. Two shabby chairs (of dif­ferent style) were scattered throughout the room. Sheglock sighed as he took in the familiar surroundings. He had not realised until now how much he would miss his home.

He sighed, knowing that he should probably wake his brother, but having little desire to do so. Where had his adventurous spirit, which had been excep­tionally strong last night, gone? Still, Morrick would get really angry if he slept through this. They were supposed to be in town by dawn. Sheglock looked out the eastern window, and saw the first sliver of light rise above the flat horizon. He shrugged, then headed to Morrick's bed and began shaking him.

It took many shakes to wake him, and he was groggy at first.

"Eh? Sheglock, that you? What're you doing?"

"Come on, we've got about ten minutes to get to town!"

Suddenly he seemed more awake. "Town! It's already light – we should've been there ten minutes ago. Why didn't you wake me earlier?"

"Sorry," Sheglock said, annoyed, not bothering to point out that it would have been nearly impossible to do so. Once Morrick fell asleep, he generally stayed that way.

"It's fine, but let's go now."

As he was saying this, there was a knock on the door. Then, without waiting, the visitor pushed the door open. It was Ulûrk.

"Ya guys leavin' already? I jus' wan'ed ta say bye, cause I'm not sure when I'll be seein' ya again."

Morrick laughed. "Getting sentimental now, Ulûrk? They don't much appre­ciate sentiment in the army."

"He means, 'We're glad you came,'" Sheglock translated quickly. Ulûrk laughed.

"I don't think he did, but it's nice of ya ta say so. Ya guys look like yer hur­ryin', so I'll leave ya to it. Jus' wan'ed ta stop by."

"You can ride with us to town," Sheglock offered. "We've got three extra wargs."

"Four, actually," corrected Morrick. "Come on Ulûrk, why not?"

"Sure, I need ta be in the town anyways, ta enlis'. I'm gonna make it official ta-day. Figured it was a good time, with ya two leaving an' all."

Morrick quickly ran to the barn and came back with two wargs. "C'mon guys," he called out. Sheglock trudged over to the barn and mounted Merân (as he knew her best). He motioned to the others to follow, and rode toward the front door.

"Pick one," Morrick said, motioning to the four wargs. Ulûrk selected the nearest one, a jet-black, strong looking male.

"Let's go already!" Ulûrk yelled, pulling hard on the reins. The warg sudden­ly shot off almost as fast as an arrow leaving the bow. Unprepared, Ulûrk tum­bled off and landed on the ground. It was only true friendship that kept Sheglock from laughing.

Ulûrk cursed as he got up, brushing dirt from his clothes. "Come back here, ya maggot-brain!" he yelled to the warg. Morrick laughed.

Eventually they all mounted wargs (Ulûrk chose a different one), and started off. Sheglock squinted toward the hor­izon and was dismayed to see the sun already fully in the sky. Would this Captain Khentz disqualify them for tardiness? Now that he had started, he wanted to finish this journey.

Soon they came to the streets of Garkhôn, which were just starting to get busy. Merchants everywhere were beginning to set up their booths. Several greeted Ulûrk as they rode by, and he acknowledged them with a wave, almost unbalancing himself and falling off again.

"I'm not used ta this warg!" Sheglock heard him mutter as he barely caught himself.

Captain Khentz was waiting in the centre of the tiled plaza, near the well. A younger woman, who was around Morrick's age, stood with him. In the back were two soldiers, possibly new to their job, as they appeared very nervous.

"You're late!" Captain Khentz called out as Morrick rode up. "But then again, I suppose your royal highness thinks he can come on his own time. None of the rest of us came with an entourage."

"Sheglock, my brother, is coming too," Morrick explained.

"I don't care who else ya bring," snarled the captain. "I'm just here to give ya four a quick briefing, and everyone else oughta _scram_!"

He shouted this last word, and glared at Sheglock and Ulûrk. Then he suddenly laughed.

"Well, if it ain't mister join-the-army! What d'ya think you're doin' here! You gonna enlist?" He turned to Morrick again. "Betcha ten pounds o' Man-flesh he doesn't even last a day."

Sheglock watched Ulûrk, feeling sorry but unwilling to intervene. Ulûrk did his best to maintain his tough demeanour.

"Just don't let the army give him a warg," Captain Khentz said to Morrick in a carrying stage whisper, obviously intended for Ulûrk to hear. "He almost fell off as he rode up, did ya see?"

Ulûrk, turning red, walked briskly away from the plaza. "The enlisting office is the other way!" Khentz called out, laughing mercilessly. Sheglock stared sor­rowfully after his retreating friend. He knew how hard Ulûrk tried to always be tough. He did not take humiliation well. Nor did he like being submissive. Sheg­lock wondered if the army really was the best place for him.

"Alright, let's start already!" the woman said impatiently. The taller, more muscular of the two soldiers nodded vigourously.

"I'll decide when ta begin, not you, 'kay. And we're gonna begin now. Everyone, get your rears up here and fast!"

Morrick and Sheglock hastened over and stood with the other three in a hori­zontal line facing the captain. Sheglock was reminded of his school, where his teacher, disapproving of rows, had made the entire eight-student class stand in a line formation for his lectures. He realised how lucky he (and Morrick) had been to get a full, six-year education. Few orcs went to more than a year of school.

Captain Khentz cleared his throat, pulling Sheglock's thoughts back to the present.

"Alright, you know what you gotta do. Get the money, at all costs. The in­stigators are in the province of Dorezátz, east of here. You need to get to Alzág, find the governor, and make him pay. I gave you the descriptions, Firri, so you can find him if he's in hiding. If he refuses, kill or arrest him, I don't care. You two—" he pointed to the soldiers "—grunts, I don't know your names and I don't care. You're just there for fighting, not for thinking. So try not to think. Any questions?"

Both "grunts" shook their heads.

"Okay, good. Morrick, you're gonna be mending all broken armour, swords, et cetera. There should be a forge in the town of Creantkor, as well as in Alzág. Got it?"

"Yessir," Morrick said, saluting for effect. Sheglock had to force himself not to laugh.

"One last thing; it's wild country out there. Roads aren't upkept so well. Ban­dits and robbers are frequently seen and seldom disciplined. It's only Sauron's influence that keeps our province o' Gorgoroth sane. He'll need the Ring to con­trol Dorezátz, and the others, too. But till then it's up to people like y'all to maintain order, at least till we find 'Shire' or 'Baggins'."

"Actually, they just did," the woman said. Everyone stared at her.

"And where'd you hear that, Firri," Captain Khentz asked sarcastically.

"News orc," Firri replied. News orcs were Sauron's messengers, responsible for Mordor's extremely efficient news system. Immediately, once a piece of news came to any citizen under Sauron's influence (pretty much anyone in Mordor, as that encompassed almost every orc), the orc with the news would tell her or his local news orc. The news orc would then ride swiftly to Barad-dûr, and tell Sauron. Then the fifty or so news orcs who stayed at Barad-dûr would ride off to the major towns. Each major town was responsible for several minor towns, and had its own news orcs. Not only did this system create a lot of jobs, it also guaranteed that any important news would reach every citizen with­in a week, and, especially in the province of Gorgoroth, frequently much sooner.

"They found the Shire," Firri continued, but got no farther before Captain Khentz interrupted.

" 'The Shire?' What is it, a country?"

"Yes, sir. It's full of strange folk, who the news orc said weren't exactly Men, but not Dwarves either. Kind of like a Man-Dwarf hybrid, I guess. But it's not like the news orc saw it; he was just passing on what he heard."

"Sounds pretty fishy to me," Captain Khentz remarked dubiously.

"It's in Eriador, in the northwest."

"Eh?" Captain Khentz said, unsure. "Did they add it to the maps?"

"Most likely," Firri replied.

"Then our orcs're gonna be comin' back soon," the skinnier "grunt" said. "We don' need ta do this."

"They won't be comin' back, moron," Captain Khentz said, exasperated. "They don't know we've found it. They'll come when they come and report their failures. Then they'll learn their efforts were useless. That'll make 'em feel good."

"I'm sure Sauron has already sent the Ringwraiths. He can communicate instantaneously with them. Even over a long distance."

"You could be right Firri, but it don't affect you four. You can just do your mission knowing that wherever 'Baggins' is (if he's even a person), one of the Nine will come up to his door and chop off his head with a nice, shiny sword. But till we get the Ring, it's up to ordinary orcs like you."

"Charming," Firri said, visibly rolling her eyes. Sheglock wrinkled his face in disgust.

"Alright," the captain then said abruptly and suddenly, businesslike again, addressing the entire group. "You know what you gotta do, and I don't care when you do it. I've wasted too much time already. Goodbye."

He briskly marched off without looking back. For a few seconds the five orcs stood still, taken aback by the captain's sudden exit. Finally they broke formation and coalesced into a small huddle.

"Hi, everyone," Firri began. "I'm Firri, the tracker. This whole thing's kinda my operation, so I should be in charge. First let's introduce ourselves."

She spoke as though she had some sort of indisputable mandate to lead them. Morrick and the two soldiers looked at her enquiringly.

"I'm Sheglock," Sheglock said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that fol­lowed Firri's short speech.

"I'm Largg," the skinnier, lanky soldier said.

"I'm Morrick, and may the best orc lead us." It was a clear challenge to Firri's self-declared leadership.

The muscular soldier was the last to speak. "I'm Burk, and may the mightiest lead us."

"May the _most qualified_ lead us," Firri said in reply. "And just in case it's not clear, that's _me_." She unsheathed her sword.

"Let's not start a fight before we even begin!" shouted Sheglock, alarmed.

Just then Sheglock felt an orc shove him. A peasant was pushing his way past them, holding a bucket. "Move it!" he demanded. "We wanna get ta the foun­tain!"

The group scattered and quickly regrouped at the edge of the plaza, next to the wargs.

"Good idea, Sheglock" Firri agreed. The interruption had prevented the ten­sion from becoming violence.

Firri went on with a commanding tone, "Now, I propose we leave right now and finish this as quickly as possible. Morrick, are we ready?"

"Yessir," he said mockingly, saluting her.

"I'm not a sir," she pointed out. Sheglock chuckled, and he even caught Mor­rick smiling.

"All right, have it your way. Yes, ma'am, we are ready."

"Then what are we waiting for? Largg, load our supplies on that brown warg – he'll be our supply-carrier. I'll take this gray one. Everyone, pick a warg!"

Sheglock and Morrick chose the wargs they had ridden up on. Largg went over to the black one.

"That one's wild," Sheglock warned, watching him try and mount. The warg confirmed this with a growl. "He threw Ulûrk off," he added.

"I'll take him," Burk offered. The two soldiers swapped wargs.

"Everyone ready?" Firri asked. The other four (who had succumbed by now to her dominance) nodded.

"Then let's go!" she yelled, pressing her legs into her warg's side. The rest of the company did likewise, and the six wargs shot off down the road.


	8. Chapter 8

**VIII**

**Firri**

They had barely left Garkhôn before the smith, who Firri remembered was named Morrick, requested a stop. He did so in a most unprofessional (yet effect­ive) fashion, yelling "STOP!" suddenly as they were racing down the road. Firri, along with the rest of the group, pulled on the reins and hopped off. The others came over to her.

"Morrick, _what_?" she demanded once he was near enough.

"I just remembered something!" he explained, sounding mildly urgent.

"Your doll?" she asked facetiously.

"I owe Gortog for these wargs. We've got to drop off these swords."

Largg looked down at the lopsided parcel atop the sixth warg's back. "I thought they were spares."

"We don't need spares," Firri pointed out. Morrick's supposed to mend our stuff if it breaks."

"I told him I'd be there by dawn, and it's nigh on midday!" Morrick fretted.

"Alright – we'll detour that way," Firri decided. "It's only about a league farther to take the loop. Hurry!"

They quickly mounted the wargs and started off again. Firri could feel the tension decrease as they left the town. Out in the open country, there were no limits, and few rules. If anyone wanted to challenge her leadership, she realised, now would be the time. Firri was actually surprised that she even feared being challenged. Most people she intimidated, and they obeyed her as a natural leader. But Mor­rick, and to a lesser extent, Burk, were more self-confidant than usual. She'd have to keep an eye on them.

By noon they had arrived at Gortog's Wargs. Gortog himself answered the door. He became livid when he realised who it was, and Firri, who had knocked, received the brunt of it.

"About time!" he roared. "I've been here since dawn, like ya promised! I'd given up on ya and was jus' gonna report ya as thieves!"

It took a while to placate him, but Firri offered him some food in addition to the swords and he eventually conceded.

"Ya want ta come in?" he asked after the deal was closed, now in a much better mood. Morrick smiled and answered before Firri could.

"No thanks, we're kind of in a hurry. Thank you for the wargs."

"No problem, jus' try ta be on time!"

"Goodbye," Firri said, glaring sideways at Morrick, who winked and smiled.

They rode off again, and Firri made sure to take the lead. She was, after all, the tracker. She sighed as the cool wind blew past her face. She had prepared herself for the journey, but she hadn't been prepared for the people.

They continued down the road for several more leagues, heading east, until the shadows lengthened before them. Firri turned to view the sunset, which al­ways was spectacular. Today's was no disappointment, with splendid pinks and oranges highlighting the sky. She stared a while at the kaleidoscope of col­ours, trusting her warg to stay on the path. Eventually, as the sun touched the tops of the Ephel Dúath, she tore her gaze downward. It was time to call a halt.

She pulled slowly on both reins, gradually slowing to a walk. The others, she was pleased to see, followed suit. She walked her warg to the edge of the road, and the rest of the company circled around her.

She looked up again at the now red sky before speaking. "Well, I'd call it a day. We're already on the outskirts of the province of Gorgoroth, and by to-morrow we should be in Dorezátz. I say we look for a sheltered place to spend the night – no need to unpack the tents in this nice weather. There's a small cliff I see just over there we can camp by."

They led the wargs over the uneven plateau to the small cliff. They had come to the edge of the province. After here, Firri could remember, the land fell steep­ly down. She knew the road zigzagged down the sheer cliffs, but she did not know the geography beyond. She had never travelled outside the province be­fore.

By now the sun had set and the stars were beginning to come out. Unable to find any wood for a fire, they had cold meat for supper. Then they each found a spot on the ground and lay down. Firri closed her eyes, exhausted from the day's riding, and quickly drifted off.

Morning came crisp and cool – as summer was drawing to a close. The skies were clear and the air was fairly still. Firri stretched as she got to her feet.

Sheglock was the only other orc awake. He was staring off toward the west, toward Barad-dûr and the volcano, Orodruin, the timeless symbols of Mordor. As she approached him she marvelled at the view they had of Sauron's strong­hold. From here His influence was absolute and unquestionable. The mighty symbols reminded all who looked upon them that Sauron alone was king, and no one else.

"I doubt you can see them from the bottom of these cliffs," Sheglock said as she approached, not turning around. "From there it's really free country."

"It's wild, and lawless, I've heard," Firri said. Sheglock turned around, mildly surprised.

"Sorry – I thought you were Morrick!"

"No, fraid not. Your brother's sleeping like a log, and so are Largg and what's-his-face, the strong one."

"His name's Burk," Sheglock said. "Though I'm fairly good with names," he added as though in apology.

"Yeah, well I'm not fully awake yet," Firri muttered.

"Do you miss Garkhôn?" Sheglock asked. "I'm surprised, but I actually do. More my home than the town, really."

"I kinda miss it," Firri admitted, "but I've been abroad before. I've travelled all over Gorgoroth, tracking."

Hearing a yawn behind her, Firri turned around. Squinting against the rising sun, she saw the silhouettes of the other three orcs stand up. "What's for breakfast?" Burk asked, coming over to her.

"Just grab something from the pack," she told him. "C'mon Sheglock, let's get something to eat."

Sheglock nodded slowly and followed her to the campsite.

_He's a funny sort of guy,_ Firri thought, _but in a good way._

In less than an hour they were ready to go. Firri mounted her warg and lead the way. They started off toward the edge of the plateau.

The ground began to slope down gradually, but it was also uneven at parts. Soon they came to a sheer face, and Firri peered over as she rode by, seeing the ground thirty yards below. "_Whew!_" she exclaimed, pulling her warg away from the precarious edge.

The road turned left and followed the cliff north for several leagues. As they travelled the gap between the high shelf and the ground slowly closed. Eventually it was only about four yards.

Firri slowed down to a stop, and the rest of the company followed her to the western edge of the road. She was glad to see they still accepted her as their leader.

"Lunch stop," she called, deftly dismounting. She tossed the warg a piece of dried meat (which he ravishingly devoured) and took a piece for herself.

"Got any Man?" Burk asked, approaching along with the other four.

"We'll need it later," Firri explained. "I'm gonna save it till were deep in Dorezátz. Right now we're still officially in Gorgoroth."

Firri waited, tense, for him to respond, fearing that she'd be challenged. To her surprise, Burk complied without making a scene. She heaved a sigh of relief.

By midday they set off again, travelling further north until the ground was a mere foot below the cliff's edge. Firri could see a junction of roads in the dis­tance. She sped up slightly, and in half an hour they arrived at the split.

They had come to the foothills of the Ered Lithui, and Firri stared up at the high brown peaks of the mountain. The tops of the western range was bare, but trees covered the peaks farther east. Firri closed her eyes and let the light breeze that had started up around midday cool her face.

"We go right," Morrick said, breaking her reverie. Firri turned around and looked cautiously in his direction. "Yes," she said, acting as though it had been a question, not a com­mand. "Let's go, then." Morrick shook his head but said nothing further.

They turned right and started down the road, following the mountains. The ground stayed flat for a while, but eventually grew rugged again. The road turned abruptly several times, and they were unable to gallop. The company slowed to a walk as they traversed the rough terrain. Firri decided to travel to the border and stop there. She had not remembered how far the cliffs were from last night's camp.

As the sun began to set behind them, Firri finally saw the edge of the plateau. As they rode closer they could see over the edge into Dorezátz, miles below. Firri heard a gasp from behind her, and someone audibly said "Wow!"

"I reckon if ya wen' ta the end o' the world, it'd look somethin' like tha'," Largg remarked in astonishment.

"We'll stop at the edge," Firri called out.

"But not so close that we fall off," Morrick added. Firri decided to not reply.

By dusk they were within a mile of the cliff. Firri chose a sheltered place to camp, where a small rock shelf bent, creating a lowered corner sheltered from the wind, which was blowing west to east. There were sporadic shrubs scattered around, and Firri broke some branches from a few of them. She returned with them, and they lit a small fire. After a nice supper of meat and bread, they lay down on the stony floor. With difficulty, Firri managed to ignore the sharp rocks cutting into her side and get to sleep.

To-morrow they would begin the _real_ adventure.


	9. Chapter 9

**IX**

**Ulûrk**

Ulûrk grumbled as he slowly retreated from the plaza. He felt humiliated, and could not do anything about it. He had never been a very good rider, and he had eventually stumbled, inevitably. Before the captain's degrading comments Ulûrk had actually been proud that he had _not_ fallen off. But it seemed even a minor balance check was, by Captain Khentz's unrealistic standards, inexcusable. He had lost face to the captain, and could think of no way to regain it.

Anger and bitterness rose inside him as Ulûrk's pride got the better of him. He was furious of the captain, calling him many bad names, "son of a Man" not the worst of them. He visualised drawing out his sword and in one fell swing knocking off Captain Khentz's oversized greasy head. But starting a fight wouldn't get him anywhere, especially as he still intended to join the army. In­stead he just grunted, trying to ignore the burning shame, and tramped onward.

"Hey Ulûrk!" Ulûrk turned and saw one of the merchants weaving at him. Ulûrk recognised him as one of the merchants he bought from often. Though the merchant's name escaped Ulûrk at the present (as he was extraordinarily pre­occupied), the two were on good terms. Glad for something to focus on other than his humiliation, Ulûrk walked over to the booth.

"Hey! How're ya doin'?"

"I'm fine. Nice ta see ya …what's yer name again?"

"Orgalo, an't's fine if ya forgot. Not'n easy name ta r'member."

"Sorry," Ulûrk apologised, "I'm kinda got a lot on my mind."

"No problem. D'ya want summore food – I've got loads. Or summa my nice new clothes in th'back? I've got swords too, butcha not gonna be wantin' any, I 'spect, as yer the smith n'all. But if ya got time, come in n'talk!"

"Sorry, I'm not buying ta-day. But I'd like ta talk with ya, if it's alright."

"Fine, fine, I've been kinda bored all morning', wouldja know? C'mon in."

Ulûrk jumped over the counter and landed in the booth. The merchant watched in alarm. "Whoa, ya be careful notter break nuthin!"

"Yer stuff's fine," Ulûrk said as he straightened his jacket. "How's the tradin' been?"

"No better than ya'd 'spect. Ain't had no cust'mers fer the last hour'o so. But betcha ain't guessin' what I sold real early in th'mornin'."

"No idea. What'd ya sell?"

"Full suita armour, helmet, breas'plate, 'n all. Orc'a bough' it was gonna leave town an' wan'ed pertecchin. Ain't that the bes' deal o' me day!"

"Did he pay in cash, or trade ya?" Ulûrk asked, intrigued.

"He was a she, an' she paid'n silva. Got me a nice lotta money, wouldja know."

"I'd imagine," Ulûrk said.

"Yeah. Nine'ta five silva coins."

"No bargains, eh?" Ulûrk remarked, surprised. Ninety five silver coins was a very high offer for a suit of armour.

"Nah, she did'n even ask, jus' paid me firs' offer. Kinda s'picious, I'd say, but I ain't sayin' nuthin'. Ya gotta make me a new'n, an' I'll buy't from ya fer four'ta coins."

"Fraid ya'll have ta ask Morrick, and he's just leavin'. I'm quitting, and joinin' the army. I was just headin' there now."

He looked slightly surprised. "Really? Ya know ya were walkin' in the opp'site direction fer th'army, doncha?"

His comment brought back Ulûrk's shame, which he'd successfully sup­pressed until then. He grimaced and nodded, and the merchant, seeming to un­derstand that he had hit a sore topic, said nothing more. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, where the only sounds were the yells of the busy town. Ulûrk heard, faint but distinct, the approaching hoof beats of some distant horse.

"Hey! Look't ahead, there's a news orc comin'." the merchant cried out sud­denly, breaking the hiatus. Sure enough, as the hoof beats grew louder, Ulûrk saw the rider's distinct ornate helmet. All news orcs bore the insignia of the Eye, fashioned onto the tops of their helmets. It stuck straight up and made clear their position. The job of the news orcs was put in high honour.

Soon the news orc rode up, and paused just outside their booth. His horse was sturdy, sleek, and a deep brown. News orcs were also among the few orcs who learned to ride horses as well as wargs, and they brought their horses every­where. Ulûrk had even heard rumours, which he seriously doubted, of one bringing his horse into a bar.

The merchant waved the news orc to his booth. "Yo! Whatcha got?"

"Shire!" he answered breathlessly with no explanation. When this piece of news drew blank looks, he repeated it with emphasis, putting it in context.

"_Shire!_ We've found the Shire!"

"How?" Ulûrk asked, amazed. They had found it extremely quickly, he thought. He was very impressed at the speed with which Sauron could accomp­lish His goals, if they mattered enough to Him. And the Shire clearly had been His top priority.

"The orc who discovered it rode west through Gondor, asking everyone he met on the way, but unable to get any leads. Then he reached the sea and turned north, following the coastline toward Eriador. He left the shore when he got to the Greyflood, one of the major rivers, and about the limit to most of our maps."

He then passed beyond the edge of known geography, as we don't know much of the wild country in the northwest. But this orc, his name I don't recall, continued exploring. From the river he headed due north for many leagues, eventually coming upon a country called Bree. He set off to the main town of the same name, and, disguising his face, asked to stay in the inn for the night. While there he heard one of the Men mention 'funny happenings over in the Shire.' "

He asked the innkeeper there, whose name was something unusual like But­terbur, and this Butterbur informed our orc that it was to the west. They were suspicious folk in Bree, apparently, and wouldn't tell him much else. So, after staying the night, he left and headed due west himself to investigate. After fol­lowing the road for a while, he eventually found a land known as 'the Shire', full of funny short folk. They turned him away at the borders, and then he rode promptly back here as fast as he could. He just arrived three days ago."

"Whad'ya know? There gonna get the Ring'n no time!"

"I hope. Sauron immediately sent the Ringwraiths down there. It shouldn't take them long to get there. And finding 'Baggins' can't be too difficult."

"Thanks fer the update," Ulûrk said, waving. The news orc smiled and rode over to the other booths, where orcs were clustered, eager for news.

"Ya never know," the merchant, (whose name Ulûrk had already re-forgotten), muttered once the news orc had ridden away. "I wouldn'ta guessed it in an 'undred years."

"Yeah," Ulûrk replied, distracted. The sense of injured pride had returned. "I've gotta leave now."

"Whatd'ya gotta do? Ya wanna enlis' _now_?"

"Sure, when else? Sorry, nice talkin' ta ya."

"Bye!" he called as Ulûrk hopped back over the counter and sprinted off.

Why he was hurrying Ulûrk could not say. Maybe it was a fear that he would change his decision if he waited any longer. Or possibly he had grown tired of waiting. All he knew was that he was now running toward the recruitment of­fice, and felt as though his legs were moving of their own accord.

He skirted the plaza when he noticed that Captain Khentz was still there. For­tunately the captain was preoccupied with the group of orcs he was sending off and didn't spot Ulûrk. Ulûrk waved to Sheglock and Morrick as he ran by on a higher ridge, but they did not wave back. Tearing his eyes away from the plaza, Ulûrk looked ahead just in time to avoid a large pothole in the road.

He jogged past several merchants, who all called out to him. Their words he could not make out over the din of the town. He simply waved and went on.

The ground began sloping downward as Ulûrk approached the other side of town. He sped up to a sprint as he quickly covered the last few yards. Then, fin­ally, he arrived, out of breath, in front of the recruitment centre.

The building itself was not imposing, and in fact could have easily passed for a bar. The only feature that distinguished it was the sign out in front, where in bold red letters was written, "Army of the Eye – Recruitment Centre". Below the sign was a sturdy wooden door, which had glass windows at the top, and the sign of the Eye had been painted on it with the same red paint. Tired of hesitation, Ulûrk marched straight up to the door and pushed it open.

The room was dark, and Ulûrk, squinting, could see only two orcs inside. One of them was lounging in a chair in the corner, his face hidden in shadow, smoking a pipe, and the second was in a chair behind the room's main desk. He was laughing.

"Nice 'un, Kag!" he was saying as Ulûrk stepped inside. It was considerably warmer in the building than it had been outside.

"Ay, a visitor," the orc called Kag cried, seeing Ulûrk.

"Yo! Step up front where we can see ya better,"

Ulûrk stepped up to the desk. There were no windows other than the one on the door, so little natural light got in. The only light came from a lantern hung over the main desk.

"Yo, I'm Bargzer, but ya can call me Barg. Ya wanna enlist ta join the army?"

"Any other reason I'd come ta this place?" Ulûrk asked. Barg laughed.

"Nah, leastways not that I know o'. Well, we'll put ya through some papers, then ya gotta do some exercises ta test yer strength."

"Fine," grunted Ulûrk. Barg reached under the desk and reappeared a minute later with a stack of dusty scrolls. The top one he handed to Ulûrk.

"Fill this out, will ya. There's a pen," he passed one to Ulûrk, "and ink's on the table. When yer done, see me."

Ulûrk went over and looked at the form, which was not too complicated. It simply asked for his name, age, and date of birth, among others. He quickly filled it out, vaguely wondering what illiterate orcs did when passed the form. Fortunately he had attended two years of school (which was a year above aver­age), so he could read the fine fiery script on the parchment.

Barg had resumed his conversation with Kag, and as Ulûrk got up one of Kag's comments caught his attention.

"Gondor's likely ta make a counter-attack soon. We sacked too many o' their cities and so far there's been no retribution. The cowards flee ta Eriador ta es­cape the wars, but the rest jus' stay in their walled towers."

"That's cause there are no brave Men left in Gondor. It's a wreck."

"Yeah, but we shouldn't go overreachin'. It jus' ain't possible ta occupy five cities at once, least not with the troops we got."

"How's the wars been goin'?" Ulûrk asked as he returned to the front desk.

"Eavesdroppin', eh?" Barg asked, laughing.

"One can hardly help it – ya were speakin' so loud."

"Well, —" he checked the form Ulûrk had just given him, "—Ulûrk, the wars have been fine. Kag here just thinks were gonna get too deep inta enemy ter­ritory, then get cut off. But Sauron's a better strategis' than that."

"That's good – I don't want ta get sent off on some suicide mission."

"Ya ain't gonna go on no missions soon. Ya still got a lotta trainin' ta do 'fore yer ready."

"Fine," Ulûrk said, slightly more rudely than necessary. Barg, fortunately, did not take offence.

"Yer name's Ulûrk?" Barg asked.

"Yeah, I just wrote it on that scroll I gave ya."

"I gotta confirm it – jus' protocol. Yer forty years old?"

"About," Ulûrk replied.

"Well ya wrote 'forty' on this form."

"Forty-four. But it really doesn't matter."

Barg scratched out something and corrected the form. Ulûrk groaned. Most orcs lived to over one hundred years, so four years didn't really make a differ­ence. He still had almost twenty years to serve, as many orcs stayed in the army until they were about sixty. But he hadn't wanted to seem too old, so he'd rounded his age. Forty-_four_ sounded a lot older than forty.

"Jus' put yer real age – we don't care, 'less yer eighty," Barg said.

"I've been telling' everyone that I was forty fer the past four years," Ulûrk said, not entirely truthfully.

"It ain't a big deal. Now, let's see ya do some exercise!"

Barg took Ulûrk to the centre of the floor, and Kag laughed as Ulûrk dropped to the ground and began doing push-ups. His arms were aching, but he perse­vered, determined to make a good impression. Barg counted, and when Ulûrk had reached fifty, called for him to stop.

"Whoa, ya can stop now! Yer in fine shape, I see. Not bad fer a forty-four year old."

Ulûrk glared at him, and he laughed.

"Yo, I was jus' kiddin' with ya. Anyways, do ya got any formal trainin'?"

"Not formal, but I can use the sword," he replied, unsheathing his partway.

"And the bow, ever tried that'un?"

"No – I'm a foot soldier."

"Alright. But they'll wanna train ya in the bow anyway. Yer trainin' ain't supposed to start till I get ya into the records. We'll have ta send someone ta Barad-dûr, where Sauron's got a list o' all the orcs in the army – all o' 'em! It's really 'mazin' how He can keep track o' everythin'!"

Ulûrk nodded – he never ceased to marvel at Sauron's might.

"Well, come back ta us ta-morrow. We should start yer trainin' then, even if it ain't official, and we'll send a news orc with yer official records." He shook the scroll as he said this.

"Thanks," Ulûrk said, turning to leave. He felt an immense sense of relief. He had pushed through and had finally gone and enlisted.

Soon he would offic­ially be in the army!


	10. Chapter 10

**X**

**Morrick**

Morrick woke early and looked around the unfamiliar landscape. They had camped, despite his warning, precariously close to the edge of the cliff. Fortun­ately nothing had rolled off.

He went over to Sheglock, who was already awake, staring east over the cliff. His brother was a mere yard from the edge.

"Careful," Morrick warned as he approached.

"I'm fine," Sheglock said. "I was just watching the sun come up."

"What do you think?" Morrick asked, indicating the land spread out before them. It looked like the landscape of another world, with mist floating in patches above verdant forests. Rivers ran live silver snakes across the land, flowing from the northern Ered Lithui to the sea of Núrnen, which they could not see from their vantage point. Much of Dorezátz was veiled in the mist.

"It is very different from Gorgoroth, undoubtedly," Sheglock replied, glanc­ing down.

"We don't really have forests at home," Morrick recalled. "It's weird, seeing so many trees all at once. It's hard to imagine such a lush place borders such a desolate plain."

"We are near the tropics, you know. It's just our elevation that prevents things from growing. Southeast of Mordor there are huge forests and jungles, so large that Mirkwood is nothing compared with them."

"I know, but I never thought I'd be seeing one."

"Me neither," his brother said. "I wonder, if a tree falls in a forest, and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?"

Morrick laughed.

"No, seriously, does it?"

"Yes," answered Morrick quickly.

"But someone has to hear it," Sheglock explained.

"Someone does."

"Beside the birds or beasts."

"Yes, Someone still hears it."

"Who?"

"Sauron. He hears all, and all that happens in Mordor is known to Him. Now come, Sheglock, step away from that cliff before a gust of wind throws you off. The others have begun breakfast already, and shall finish without us if we don't hurry."

Sheglock gave his brother a look that showed clearly that he was discontented with the answer, but dropped the topic. Morrick smiled to himself. He had won that debate, for now, at least. Morrick was perpetually amused by Sheglock's ran­dom (but seldom uninteresting) comments.

Firri had just finished breakfast by the time Morrick arrived. Largg was already mounting his warg, but Burk, a voracious eater, was still preoccupied with his food.

Morrick took some meat from the pack, and some bread, and gave some to his brother. "You'll have to eat it as we ride," Firri said when she saw them. "We gotta get started."

Morrick did not like being told what to do, and he was especially irked by Firri's immediate claim to leadership. "Burk's not finished yet," he noticed.

"C'mon, you glutton, finish up!" Firri called in her sharp, commanding voice. Burk regretfully jammed the rest of his bacon in his pockets, and went over to his warg. Morrick glared at Firri, but she did not see, as she was already preparing the wargs to leave. As much as she annoyed him, he had to admit that she was a capable leader, at least in the orginisational realm. How well she could make life-affecting decisions remined to be seen.

"Okay," Firri began, addressing the group, "we're going to make it to the bottom of these cliffs today. I don't expect we'll get any farther. Be very careful, as a fall would certainly be fatal. This road isn't much used, and Dorezátz is a fairly isolated province. Sauron's influence is weaker down there, and it is less lawful. Remember our goal, to find rebels from Alzág, and get them to pay Sauron the money due Him. Now then, let's get going."

They started off at a good speed, following the road parallel to the cliff for a few leagues. But then the road abruptly turned east, and they began to descend. The road became treacherous in many parts, and the wargs began to slip on the rocks that covered the path. After Largg almost was thrown off, Firri called a halt. Already the tops of the cliffs were a good two hundred yards above their heads.

"We shouldn't go on in this manner. Someone will get killed! Dismount, everyone – we'll have to use our legs. Riding is clearly too dangerous."

_Great idea,_ Morrick thought bitterly, but not sarcastically. He was annoyed at himself for not suggesting it sooner.

They dismounted and continued, at a slower pace, down the road. Morrick saw a flat level plateau over the edge of he cliff, about a hundred yards down. The road passed through it, so Morrick assumed that it curved in the distance and returned there. He had heard rumours of the "zigzag path" from Gorgoroth to Dorezátz.

"We can rest when we get down there," he said as they passed, pointing over the edge. The others peered over.

"Fine," Firri said. "We'll rest when we get there."

"Ta the bottom?" Largg asked.

"No, ta that shelf there," Burk pointed, nudging him. Unfortunately, Largg was bent over, peering down over the cliff, and Burk was a strong orc, his playful shove equivalent to a push by anyone else. Largg lost his footing and stumbled, staggering forward. With a yell he fell over the edge and slid roughly down to the shelf, where he lay still, as though dead.

Burk swore. So did Firri.

"Why in Sauron's name would you do a thing like that!" she yelled at him, drawing her sword.

Burk threw his arms into the air. "No! It was an accident, I swear ta ya!"

"By rights you should be tried for murder! And they'd sentence you to death." She was outraged, and, Morrick noted, not thinking logically. "Why don't I save them some trouble!" She advanced, sword pointing to his heart. Burk took a step back, moving even closer to the cliff.

"Guys," Sheglock said quietly. Morrick was the only one who heard him.

"You can't kill me!" Burk yelled. "Sauron won't allow it."

"Guys," Sheglock repeated, looking over the edge. Once again, neither Firri nor Burk heard him.

"What?" Morrick asked.

"He's not dead. He must've dragged himself away, because he's gone."

Morrick peered over, and, sure enough, Largg was gone. He heard Firri threaten Burk, "Didn't I tell you Dorezátz was a lawless land?"

"Did you see him move?" Morrick asked, ignoring for the moment the confrontation behind him.

"No," he replied, "but this place is pretty desolate. Who could've dragged him?"

Morrick shrugged, then went over to the others. "Stop!" he shouted. "STOP!"

Firri turned to him, not lowering her sword. "He's not dead!" Morrick ex­plained.

She lowered her sword and peered over the edge. "He's gone!"

"He must've dragged himself away," she noted, pointuing out a patch of disturbed earth. "He crawled there, toward the cliff wall. He was moving slowly. But then, for some reason, he sped up, near the end, pulling himself quickly right to the edge of the cliff. He must be there, though we can't see him from this angle."

Firri went back to Burk, sheathing her sword. "Fortunately for you, I obey Sauron and His law. I wouldn't have killed you, you know. Just don't _ever_ do that again!"

"Now let's get down there and find Largg!" Morrick yelled. He began running down the path, slipping constantly on the multiple shards of rock. He stumbled, fell, and received a light cut on his arm. He swore, got back up, and continued running.

His progress was inhibited by the unkempt path, and Morrick took a long time to reach the bend in the path. Eventually he saw it ahead, though it appeared to be at least a mile further.

"Jump!" Firri yelled, coming up behind him. "It's not very high!"

Morrick looked over the edge, and, sure enough, the lower shelf was barely four yards away. He slid down the steep incline and landed on the lower path. He turned around and followed Firri, who was now in front of him. Behind him he heard someone, and turning around he saw Burk sprinting up.

In less than ten minutes the three of them arrived at the wide shelf to which Largg had tumbled. Immedi­ately they found where Largg had vanished to. There was a large cave in the side of the cliff, and it appeared too round to be a work of nature, rather a dwelling hewn by some orc in the ancient past. Morrick was almost sure it was deserted, and marched in, squinting through the darkness, looking for his companion.

"Lookin' fer yer friend?" a deep voice asked, startling Morrick, who jumped. In the gloom he saw two shadows moving around. Who or what they were he could not tell.

"Firri pushed her way in past Morrick. "Hello?"

"What brings you two down 'ere?" another voice asked. The second figure stepped forward slightly, but kept tantalisingly out of the sunlight that streamed from the cave's door.

"We _are_ looking for our friend, who fell," Morrick explained. At the same time Firri, in evident frustration, exclaimed, "Show yourselves, will you! Step into the sun!"

"We can't" answered the first voice. Softly he began an almost song-like chant.

_We were hewn from the stones_

_Out of the darkness forlorn_

_Cold our hearts, yet strong our bones_

_Lest to stone we shall return_

The second voice now joined the chant, which had a sad, funeral-like quality to it.

_Fire, light of day so strong_

_Shield us from thy deadly rays_

_Our maker we cannot wrong_

_He outcast us from the days_

_Now in the darkness we dwell_

_Sad pariahs from the world_

_All hate us – their fear we smell!_

_Alone with our troves of gold…_

Slowly Morrick's eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. He could see the two shapes, too big to be orcs. _Trolls!_ He realised, surprised he hadn't figured out before. Instantly he was wary, as most trolls were unfriendly and the others vicious.

However, these two _seemed_ to be okay…

"Trolls?" Firri asked accusingly. "How do we know you won't just eat our companion, and us too!"

"My point 'zactly," the first voice said. "There's no trust'n our race. Orcs trust only other orcs, an' naught else."

"I'm Robert," the other said. "And my companion is named Mark. Long ago we met here, and we've lived here ever since."

"Ay, tis a sad tale," Mark said.

_A long time back we found this hole –_

Firri cut him off. "I've had enough poetry! What've you done with Largg?"

"Well," Mark started, looking insulted, "'E kinda just crawled inta 'ere on 'is own. Ya know, we couldn't really go out inta the sun'n 'elp 'im. We felt real bad when 'e fell, though."

"Where is he," Morrick asked. Robert pointed to the corner, where a dark shape was lying on the ground.

Burk rushed over to him. "Sorry, buddy! I'm real sorry, fellow!"

"'E's not gonna 'ear ya," Mark said.

"Yeah," Robert added, "'e passed out 'bout 'alf an hour ago, right after 'e crawled into the cave."

Firri sighed. "Now what?" she asked no one in particular.

"Ya can stay with us fer a while," Mark offered. "Till yer friend 'eals."

"Well, we have no other choice," she said dismayed, clearly not excited by the prospect of spending any more time than she needed to with the trolls. "Good, everyone's here, so I guess we'll be staying here until—"

Morrick cut her off. He had just realised that Sheglock was missing. How could he have not noticed before? "Where's my brother!" he yelled fretfully.

Firri looked around the cave. "No idea," she replied, puzzled. "Didn't he follow us?"

"Now that you mention it, I don't think he did," Morrick replied. "But I'm still worried!"

"'E'll be fine," Robert assured him. "There's nothing on these cliffs that could 'urt 'im."

"Well, we'll just wait," Firri told him. "If he hasn't arrived by sunset we can go looking."

"We can rest and eat here," Burk suggested.

"No, we left all our supplies up at the top of that cliff!"

Burk groaned audibly.

"Ya guys can have somma our food," Mark offered. "It's all birds, mainly. We 'unt at night, but nothin' much comes 'ere. An' it's agains' our moral code ta eat orcs."

"You have a _moral code_," Firri repeated, laughing.

"Of course we do! Just because we're trolls don't mean were savages! Mark, tell 'em all about our moral code."

Mark began another one of his songs:

_Back in the far-off past there were no laws_

_And Man and Orc and Troll were all the same,_

"Shut up," Firri muttered. Mark heard her and stopped chanting.

"Art is never appreciated," Robert said sadly, patting his friend on the back. Mark nodded gloomily.

"'E wrote those verses 'imself," Robert told Firri. "I'm not gonna ask you to be polite, as, according to Mark, 'We learned that we should not force our bel­iefs/On others, lest at heart they disagree.' So I'm not gonna ask you to be pol­ite, or to appreciate 'is art."

"Well that's good, cause I don't appreciate art of any form." Firri said, clearly not falling into the guilt trap. Morrick was surprised at her impudence.

"What's wrong with art?" Robert asked. "Art is one of the greatest virtues!"

"It's impractical," Firri said. Morrick inwardly approved, though said no­thing, as he didn't want to rile the trolls.

"It appeals to something higher," Robert said. "Art isn't made to be prac­tical, though it certainly can be. For instance, all soldiers of Mordor paint their 'elmets with the red Eye."

"Tha's not real art," Mark said sadly. "Art 'as ta be made ta please, and those Eyes definitely ain't."

_Back in the day my old grandpa asked me_

"_Mark, my boy, what do you plan to do_

_When you go off to explore and be free?"_

_And I replied that I had not a clue._

Firri grimaced but said nothing. However, Mark saw the grimace and stopped speaking.

"Art is good when it tells a story," Morrick said, chiefly out of pity for the trolls. He was not a fan of art. But Firri was being exceptionally rude.

"I was explainin' how I became a poet," Mark told him quietly. Firri gave him a contemptuous glance.

She started walking toward the cave's exit. "Well, we'll be staying the night here, if you don't mind, but I need some fresh air. I'll come back in the evening."

As she left, Morrick shrugged in the direction of the two trolls. That was his way of saying "sorry". Then, also desiring a break from the stale air and the pervading troll-odour, he followed Firri outside.


	11. Chapter 11

**XI**

**Sheglock**

Sheglock watched in horror as Largg tumbled over the edge. As Burk and Firri swore and started fighting, he ran over to the edge. Largg was lying still, seemingly dead.

He turned back to keep an eye on the fight. It was getting more serious than he had anticipated. Firri had her sword out and was backing Burk toward the edge. Sheglock feared that she would, whether by accident or intention, knock him off too. Wasn't one casualty enough for them already?

He glanced back down over the edge, but quickly returned his gaze to the al­tercation. Still, he had noticed something amiss…

He stared back over the edge again. Largg was gone!

"Guys?" he asked timidly. Neither orc appeared to hear him. Burk and Firri resumed their yelling, though it seemed the entire fight was pointless, as Largg did not appear to be dead.

"Guys?" he repeated, staring down to confirm Largg's absence. Morrick came over to him this time.

"What?" his brother asked.

"He's not dead," Sheglock explained. "He must've dragged himself away, because he's gone."

"Did you _see_ him move?" Morrick asked, peering over the edge to see for himself.

"No," Sheglock replied. He was unable to think of why else Largg would have vanished, unless someone dragged him. "But this place is pretty desolate. Who could've dragged him?"

Morrick didn't reply, but shrugged. Then he went toward the others, who were continuing to make threats. Fortunately no one had been hurt yet.

"Stop!" Morrick shouted, then repeated it louder. "STOP!"

Firri, distracted, turned to him, but did not lower her sword, which was pointed at Burk's neck.

"He's not dead!" Morrick told her. Firri lowered her sword and peered over the cliff's edge.

"He's gone!" she noticed in surprise.

"He must've dragged himself away," Morrick suggested.

Firri went back to Burk and apologised, if it could be called an apology. "Fortunately for you, I obey Sauron and His law. I wouldn't have killed you, you know. Just don't _ever_ do that again!" Relieved, Burk let out a loud sigh.

"Now let's get down there and find Largg!" Morrick yelled, running off. Sheglock saw him stumble as he retreated into the distance.

"Come on!" Firri yelled, running after him. Burk let her get a good distance ahead before he ran after them. Clearly he didn't trust her, Sheglock realised, but, after the _argument_, who could blame him?

Sheglock realised he had been left alone with the six wargs. He decided to take them down, to avoid any further interaction with his companions. They all seemed to be in bad moods.

It was tediously slow trying to lead the wargs all at once. Occasionally one or two of them would turn around for no apparent reason and head back uphill. But Sheglock slowly got them down the path.

By midday he finally reached the point where the path turned. He made sure that the wargs didn't stumble as they made the sharp turn. Then he continued onward to the ledge.

Sooner than he expected he saw it in front of him. There was a cave – which Largg had undoubtedly crawled in to. And two figures were standing outside. One of them (who he could recognise even from this distance as his brother) started waving. Morrick began running toward him.

"Sheglock, there you are!"

"I brought the wargs. How's Largg?"

"It is a most peculiar situation – you would need to see it to believe it."

Sheglock was intrigued. "What's funny about it?"

"Not _queer_, just unexpected. There were several unusual inhabitants of that cave."

They arrived at the flat part of the shelf. Firri looked up (she had been the other figure outside).

"Thanks for bringing the wargs," she said.

"No problem," Sheglock replied.

"I'm going to take him inside to meet the trolls," Morrick said. Sheglock wondered if he had heard wrong. Had Morrick really said "trolls"? Puzzled, he followed his brother into the dim, shadowy cave.

"'Ey, is 'e yer brother?" a voice asked. "I'm Mark, an' this 'ere's Bob."

Sheglock strained to see them more clearly. "Nice to meet you. I'm Sheg­lock. Would you mind stepping into the light so I can see you better?"

"We can't," Bob said mournfully. "But Mark can tell you about us."

"Well, I write po'try…" he started, then faded off, embarrassed. "But ya prob'ly don't 'preciate art."

"On the contrary," Morrick replied, laughing. "My brother is an avid fan of all things impractical."

"I do like art," Sheglock said. He was very curious about these peculiar trolls – as they looked and talked like trolls. But they did not fit the stereotype at all.

"We really just want to be good people, but everyone takes one look at us and runs. 'Trolls,' they say, 'they'll kill us and roast us!' Not us! We just want to 'elp others, and we don't even eat orc."

Mark began singing a song that Sheglock suspected he had composed. The tune was fairly cheerful and upbeat, but the trolls, with their deep voices, put a sorrowful touch to it.

_We all just wanna be good._

_We know that even trolls should._

_If I knew I could, I certainly would._

_Do you fine orcs think we are good?_

_We all just wanna be nice,_

_As sweet as sugar and spice._

_We have paid the price, so we're on thin ice,_

_But even trolls want to be nice._

_We all just wanna be kind,_

_Yet we're always left behind._

_If you wouldn't mind, please go species-blind;_

_Allow us trolls to be kind._

_We want ya ta know us so well_

_That you can look at us and tell_

_That trolls can excel in kindness as well_

_And are not all demons from Hell._

"And that's our story," Bob said when they had finished. Sheglock suddenly felt pity for them. He could understand the discrimination they faced, as he ex­perienced it every time he tried to have a deep conversation with anyone. Most of Mordor was too preoccupied with the superficial, material side of life, he had always thought.

But here was an exception, poetic trolls. Sheglock was amazed that they could really care. But their love for art was evident in their speech and actions. Sheglock instantly felt a deep sense of connexion to them, notwithstanding that they had just met. Here were two people with whom he could really talk about things beside the mundane.

"I like it," Sheglock replied, causing Mark to smile broadly. "And yes, I think you two really _are_ good."

"You don't know what this means to us," Bob told him with feeling. Sheg­lock smiled.

"I think I just may," he replied.

Burk, who had been in the back of the cave, got up and left. He and Firri did not come back into the cave until the sun set. Sheglock, however, stayed and talked with the trolls, and his brother soon joined the conversation.

"How'd you guys end up here?" Sheglock asked.

"We travelled by night, and kept 'idden in the day. But Mark 'ere, 'e was tired of 'iding."

"Yeah. I wan'ed ta find an 'ome. I wan'ed ta settle down an' live a good life, write some songs…"

"It wasn't like that. The land 'ere's desolate. There's nothing for miles around. We're reduced to singing to the empty air."

"What a pity!" Sheglock exclaimed empathetically. "Does no one in this wide world appreciate art?"

"Elves do," Morrick said.

"Yeah, the elves're fair an' the trolls ain't. We've 'eard it an 'undred times. Still, don't make it true, does't?"

"Not in the least!" Sheglock said, giving Morrick an admonishing look. His brother ignored him and continued.

"I reckon we all were put here for a reason, I really do. But the purpose of the orc (or troll) is not to be an artist. We are the practical races. We are the peoples who _get stuff done_." He spoke those last three words emphatically, pausing be­tween each. Then, after another pause, when no one replied, he went on.

"That is why Mordor is so much stronger than it's enemies. Because we don't waste time with the arts – not trying to beautify our crafts. A crude eye on a helmet is sufficient, and it evokes more fear than the seven stars or silver tree ever could."

Neither Bob nor Mark replied to this comment. Both of them looked down at their feet. After a while Morrick spoke again.

"What say you? A debate hardly functions if it is one-sided."

"I didn' know we were debatin'," Bob said downheartedly.

"Are you willing to see a different point of view?" Sheglock asked.

Morrick nodded. "If it has sound _logic_ behind it."

Bob sighed. "If you try and back up art with logic, you're gonna fail every time, for sure. Art is, by definition, illogical. But that's the most important point! True artists can ignore their needs, and material survival. They reach an 'igher understanding. That is why, long after they've perished from Middle Earth, their works live on. Art is immortal."

"Aye, too true," Mark muttered sorrowfully.

"Well, I don't know what higher world is more important than ours," Mor­rick said. "Art may be celestial, but _I_ am terrestrial. Maybe art is truly above me; so be it. I do not need to excel in aught but survival. To me this world – this land of Middle Earth – matters more than all the constellations."

This time Mark spoke the counter-argument. Sheglock was surprised they hadn't given up. He wholly supported the trolls, but they did not know how to counter his brother's points.

"Real art is findin' more in reality than ya see at firs'. It's not goin' ta any other place, but here. Art's righ' in front o' ya, ya jus' need ta know where ta look. Look't that cloud out yonder, the big, fluffy one framed by the cave door. Do ya see anything' in't?"

"Not really," Morrick said. "A cloud is just a cloud."

"Each one's unique. There ain't no two clouds 'zactly the same. All of 'em got somethin' special in 'em, a child, a warg, a mountain... The artist gotta know that, an' look fer it. Artists gotta find some aspec's of sublimity in the banality of everyday life. Then ya got art."

"But why would I need to look at the world in a new way, when the way I know is sufficient? Should I get another pair of eyes, when the two I have work fine? I see no reason for art."

Sheglock hurriedly intervened. "Looking at something in more ways than one is often better. You end up with a comprehensive knowledge of it. Take strategy, for instance. Sauron knows that Gondor is weak. But unless He can predict the moves of the Men, He will make a mistake. He must look at the wars from _their_ point of view. Then He can anticipate their moves, and plan an effective coun­ter-attack, or trap them. Sauron Himself often uses a similar tool, of re-looking at the world, as the artists!"

Sheglock was trying to show the trolls how to argue with Morrick. It was necessary to approach the issue indirectly. Logic was essential, as otherwise Morrick wouldn't listen. And it always helped to put Sauron into the argument.

Morrick laughed. "Well, _you_ certainly know how to debate, at any rate. But that does not mean you argument is flawless. I never said that it was bad to look at things from the _enemy's_ shoes. That is because I need to know more about my enemy. But take the cloud, for instance. What I already know of it is adequate. Why must I learn any more?"

"You must understand that there is more to us than we can see!" Bob im­plored. "There is an 'igher being in all of us, orcs, trolls, maybe even elves. This is the part of us that benefits from the experience."

"Calm down, Robert. You do not have proof of it. I'm sorry, but as strongly as you believe something, it is all up to faith. Unless you can show me a soul, such that I can confirm its presence by my five senses, I am inclined not to believe."

"Well, guess that means that our arg'ment ain't getting' us nowhere," Mark reflected sadly. Sheglock nodded, and they dropped the topic. He wondered if his brother would ever change his stubborn views.

_No,_ he thought sadly. _Morrick is a lost cause…_


	12. Chapter 12

**XII**

**Largg**

"We can rest when we get down there," Morrick said, pointing over the edge of the cliff. Largg groaned inwardly; he was tired and a trek to the bottom didn't appeal to him.

"Fine," Firri said. "We'll rest when we get there."

"Ta the bottom?" Largg asked incredulously.

"No, ta that shelf there," Burk pointed, to Largg's relief. Then his companion nudged him playfully. Largg, however, was unprepared, and Burk was far stronger than he was. Largg felt himself slipping. He yelled as the world tipped.

Suddenly he was falling, bumping against rocks as he slid down the cliff. Time seemed to slow as he fell, his brain taking in every minute detail. As he watched the world fall by he felt no pain, only fear.

He hit the ground with a loud smack, nearly knocking him unconscious. He could have sworn he heard several bones crack. He lay for a while on the ground, stunned. Then the pain came. It hit all at once, excruciating and burning. He tried to scream but could not find his voice.

Delirious, he heard a chorus of deep voices. He painfully turned over and saw a cave ahead of him. Was it real or a mirage? Largg really didn't care. He slowly dragged himself toward it.

Voices were coming from inside, calling to him. Then a chant rose from the darkness, and Largg paused, frightened. He had a sudden fear that he had died, and the cave seemed to be the entrance to the underworld. But the pain was too real for that. He was alive, but unless he got off the road, his life might not last much longer.

He paused for breath, his sides and right arm burning, and could clearly hear the words of the chant, which had an ominous air to it.

_Come in, come hither to our cave,_

_O little orc so young and brave._

_In here you'll find comfort and rest,_

_If you escape the sun's rays first._

_Enter the darkness cool and calm_

_Let it erase, like healing balm_

_All of your misery and pain_

_Rest here till you can leave again_

_And we'd be glad for company_

_A chance to laugh and say we're free_

_While we're imprisoned in this hole,_

_We'd find your presence pleas'rable._

Intimidated, but feeling he had no other choice, Largg pulled himself into the cave. The instant he had crossed into the shadows he was grabbed by a pair of strong arms. The grip was strong, but gentle. Nevertheless, Largg was still afraid.

"Put me down, ya brute!" he yelled.

"We're tryin' ta 'elp ya," a deep voice said. "Lay still'n we'll bandage that arm fer ya. Looks like ya broke yer wris'. And yer ribs ain't lookin' real good either."

Another one of them came over and applied a cloth bandage to Largg's right wrist. He yelled and tried to tug away but the first creature held him firmly. Whatever these people were, Largg realised, they were certainly not orcs. His fear mounted higher.

"I know it 'urts, just 'old still," the one bandaging his arm said. Largg did not obey, and continued struggling.

The pain intensified. Largg began to feel feverish and light-headed. He gave up struggling. His head felt as though there was a hammer inside.

As he began to drift off, one of the creatures leaned over him. His eyes had grown familiarised with the dim light. Immediately he recognised the creatures.

_Trolls! I've been captured by trolls! They'll kill me!_

With that he closed his eyes, helpless to save himself, and passed out.

Largg awoke to silence. It was the middle of the night, or so it seemed, as there was hardly any light to see by. Largg was surprised that he was still alive.

His surprise only grew as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light. He was in a spacious cave, the far ends of which were masked in shadows. To his right was the mouth, with silvery moonlight streaming through. He had a vague recollection of crawling into a cave before he passed out.

But the most surprising thing was that the cave was clearly inhabited. Not only that, it also bore clear signs marking it as a troll den. There were crude stony shelves hewn into the walls. And the shape of the cave was altogether too perfectly round to have been formed by nature alone. Largg knew he was no genius, but it didn't take much wit to decipher these riddles. Undoubtedly he had been captured by trolls.

The real riddle was the fact they had let him live. Not only had they spared him, but they had too bandaged his wrist – which, surprisingly, did not hurt. And, finally, they had vanished, leaving him alone in the cave, free to leave. Thanking his good fortune, Largg got up to find his companions, and escape the gloomy abode of the puzzling trolls.

Shadows stirred along the edges as he rose. Largg froze, petrified. The cave had not been deserted after all! He held his breath, heart beating madly. Two fig ures stepped forward – but Largg breathed a sigh of relief. Though he couldn't see them clearly in the dim light, they were the size of orcs, not trolls.

"Were ya captured too?" Largg asked sympathetically. "I reckon the trolls're gone, we can get outta here now!"

"What are ya talkin' about?" the orc nearest asked, and Largg, with surprise, recognised Burk's voice. "We're not captured, we've just been waitin' for ya ta heal! Ya all right?"

"How did ya get inta 'ere?" Largg asked, feeling more lost than ever.

"First tell me if yer alright."

Largg punched his companion (rather hard) in the stomach. Burk grunted and doubled up.

"Yeah," Largg said, trying to restrain from laughing at the comical position in which his friend was contorted. "I think my wrist's fine. But thanks ta ya, my head's all fuzzy. Count that as payback!"

"And that's all the payback yer gonna get," Burk groaned, clutching his stomach. "I think I'm gonna barf!"

"But where are we?" Largg asked, ignoring his whining. The other orc, who Largg could tell by his voice was Sheglock, answered.

"We're in the house of Mark and Bob."

"Hmm," Largg said thoughtfully. "I musta dreamed those trolls, then. But I coulda sworn there were two trolls that got me."

"Those would have been Mark and Bob," Sheglock explained calmly. "They're trolls."

"But where are they?" Largg asked in alarm.

"Outside, probably. They can only go out at night." Sheglock showed no fear or worry that they might return, but his ease did naught to quell Largg's mounting apprehensiveness.

"And where're Morrick and Firri – we gotta wake 'em!"

"They're not going to waken, leastwise not my brother. When he sleeps, he sleeps like a log, and nothing can wake him, save the sun of the next day. But why the hurry? Shouldn't you stay here until you are fully healed?"

"I can't! We gotta scram 'fore the trolls come back!"

"And why's that?" Sheglock asked calmly.

"They're gonna eat us!" Largg cried imploringly. Why couldn't Sheglock see the problem. Largg knew that Sheglock was odd, but had not thought that he was _stupid_.

"No!" Sheglock cried, clearly offended, though for what reasons Largg could not fathom. "They're nice trolls. It was they who bandaged and took care of your wrist while you were in that coma. Mark writes poetry, and I like him. But Bob's more puzzling; I haven't figured him out. He's more of an introvert, I suppose."

Largg neither knew nor cared what "introvert" meant. His primary concern was Sheglock's mental health and sanity. It seemed that he, Largg, had not been the only orc to receive an injury to the head. Whatever had come upon Sheglock, it had severely addled his brain.

"This is madness!" he cried in frustration, making for the door. But Burk, who had by then recovered sufficiently, stopped him.

"'E's telling the truth, ya know," Burk said. Largg was flabbergasted.

"Ya too? Ya know what? Ya've both lost yer marbles! _Trolls don't write poetry!_"

Just then Largg heard the heavy thud of approaching footsteps outside the cave's door.

"'Ere they come," Burk said, smiling. "Just in time too!"

Largg knew he couldn't escape. He'd just have to hope that – as wild as it sounded – his companions spoke the truth.

An enormous head appeared silhouetted in the mouth of the cave. Largg managed not to scream, but barely. The troll stepped inside, closely followed by another.

"Who 'ere said that trolls don't write poetry?" the first asked in disapproval, surveying his surroundings. He seemed suddenly to notice Largg. "'Ey! Look, Mark, 'e's awake!"

"Aye, 'e 'ealed after all. Good fer ya, matey." The enormous troll patted Largg lightly on the shoulder, who cringed in fear.

"There ain't nuthin' ta be 'fraid o'!" Mark cried, and Largg regretted his brief show of distrust. Funny as it was, the trolls really did seem good. Largg was surprised and relieved at the situation, though he was bitter at Burk for being right.

_We've waited and waited and now_

_You awaken at last; but ya show_

_No signs of affection or care_

_Ta the poor trolls who brought ya here._

"Not real good – but I made it up'n the spot. The rhymes ain't perfect, but ya get the point."

"I'm sorry," Largg apologised., "but I just've never heard o' good trolls before."

"Yer fine – few orcs 'ave."

"But we're persecuted nonetheless," the other, who Largg remembered was called Bob, said.

"Tis a sad life," Mark agreed with feeling. "Well, get ta bed an' rest summore. In the morning' ya'll have ta decide what ta do."

Sheglock and Burk took his advice without hesitation. Largg lay down but was unable to get to sleep. He lay a while with eyes wide open, staring at the cold grey roof of the cave. He missed the breeze and open sky, and was begin ning to feel claustrophobic.

Soon Mark began singing, in slow mournful tones, of the persecution and discrimination the trolls faced. Largg felt surprisingly attached, and empathetic to their plight. He was not usually a sentimental orc, and seldom thought of any thing more than the struggles of the present journey. But as the serenading song resounded through the bleak, stony cave, Largg felt a very unusual, though not altogether unpleasant, sensation. He closed his eyes, shutting out all save the rhythmical and melodious words of the poem. The song melded into his dreams, and he succumbed gradually to sleep.

He woke to the concerned faces of all his companions. They were leaning over him in alarm. Largg bolted upright, as the others heaved sighs of relief.

"What?" he asked.

"Whew!" Firri said. "For a moment we thought we'd lost you again. You sleep long."

"I was just sleepin', though, not out cold. But why'd I fall inta a coma again?"

"I don't know! But the last one lasted long enough."

Largg was surprised by the last comment. He had assumed he'd only been unconscious for a day, at most. "How long was I out?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"A good four days," Morrick replied.

"Ya musta hit yer head pretty dang hard on the way down," Burk told him.

Largg groaned. "I shoulda hit ya harder," he said regretfully.

"Well, yer better now," Bob said, coming over with some cooked meat. "'Ere's some bird-flesh; it's about all we get in these parts, as we don't eat orc. The rest have already breakfasted. When yer done, ya can leave as early as noon today."

"We best tarry a while," Morrick said, "and allow Largg to heal completely."

"But not too long," Firri said. "We have a mission to do, and should get to Dorezátz before winter really kicks in. Our duty to Sauron should come first."

"There's really no other choice," Morrick said.

"Well, if we must we can leave him here, and go on without him. But we mustn't delay more than a month!"

"We'd love ta 'ave some comp'ny," Mark said, overhearing. Largg said nothing. Funnily enough, he was now loath to part with the trolls. He was intrigued by them, and wanted to find out more about them. Here was something he thought he'd never find – good trolls (who didn't even eat orc!) He wanted to stay for at least a week, and possibly more. Why this sudden change in mood, Largg could not say. But he felt that there was a connexion between his altered desires and the song he had heard the last night. Possibly he now could under stand the trolls better, for even though he remembered few of the actual words of the poem, the message stayed with him far longer than he ever anticipated.

"What do you think?" Sheglock asked Largg at length. "You're the one who is injured."

"I'd like a break, and a rest," Largg decided. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw both trolls' faces break into wide, genuine smiles.

In the end they stayed there almost three weeks. Largg soon fell into the rhythm of the trolls' life, and grew comfortable with it. Through the day, Mark seldom sang, for both Firri and Morrick showed no appreciation of his art. But in the night the slow, beautiful music resounded through the spacious cavern, a lullaby of peace and tranquillity. Largg grew accustomed to it, but no less appreciative. He realised, for perhaps the first time, that he had an appreciation of art.

Too soon the company began debating when they would have to part. Though Sheglock, Burk, and Largg desired to stay longer, Firri was growing restless, and Morrick seemed to feel that they had overstayed their invitation. Though the trolls urged them to the contrary, the group's leaders insisted that they set off soon. The name of Sauron was thrown around, and reminders of old promises and calls to duty.

By the end of the third week Largg's wounds had healed almost entirely, and hurt no longer. Firri deemed the time ripe to depart.

So Largg went to sleep for the last time to the sonorous and slow music of the trolls' laments. They sang songs of bitterness and parting, but with a hopeful edge to them. And, before he knew it, Largg drifted off and embarked into the adventures of his dreams.


	13. Chapter 13

**XIII**

**Firri**

They started off early in the morning, before the break of day, so that (as Largg and Sheglock had insisted) the trolls would be able to see them off. Mark was in a sombre mood, and clearly loath to have them depart, but Robert, though he likely felt the same inside, acted more vivacious. It was he who insisted they stock up on bird-flesh from the trolls larder, as he warned them, "We don't know what's past 'ere. You might not come across any more food for a long while." Firri had agreed, as she too had no knowledge of the land beyond the border. And stocking up on provisions was the most logical thing to do, though it depleted the trolls' supply. Robert, in a cheerful manner, assured them that they would be fine, when Sheglock showed concern. Firri felt slightly guilty, but reminded herself that her expedition was, to Sauron, of greater importance than the trolls' plight.

The two trolls saw them off at the mouth of the cave, waving as they rode slowly away. Firri heard Mark's slow chanting, but couldn't make out the words, and didn't really desire to. She looked briefly over her shoulder when they were several hundred yards down the path. Largg seemed to have forgotten how to ride, or perhaps it was his wrist, but he was constantly teetering. Sheglock had his eyes fixated on the trolls, and neglected to look ahead, but his warg spared him any sudden jolts. Burk's eyes were downcast, and his head low, as though he was weary, though Firri suspected he still felt shame for being responsible for the delay. Morrick was staring straight ahead, and briefly caught Firri's eye. She quickly turned away and stared ahead, taking in the lightening, curvy path.

As dawn came, the entire province of Dorezátz appeared shrouded in a cool blanket of mist. A cool breeze blew from the south, chilling their bones. Firri shivered and pulled her cloak tighter to her body.

The sun rose higher in the sky, but the fog did not let up until midday. Meanwhile they continued to descend into the mysterious veiled forest. Aside from the tops of a few tall trees poking through the mist, most of Dorezátz remained hidden.

Night came, and they had not yet reached the bottom. The fog returned as the moon rose, creeping steadily upward toward them. Wisps of mist drifted by, and the cold air was demoralising. Dispirited, Firri called an early rest, not desiring to go any further until the next day.

By noon of the next day they had begun to descend into the fog, which remained over the land like a permanent white cover. Thin wisps of fog came over the edge of the cliffs to the path. Suddenly the path curved east and grew far steeper, and they slowly became isolated in the dense fog.

Firri soon lost all sense of direction, as the path continuously curved around small fissures. However, she suspected they were headed east still, as the air grew steadily warmer. Trees began to appear alongside the road, sporadically at first, but with increasing frequency as they travelled along.

They spent a week riding through Dorezátz. They rested where they could, usually to the side of the road. Firri insisted they seek shelter, as she knew bandits often roamed the unpopulated region between the two provinces, but Morrick believed otherwise. He insisted the fog, which remained throughout their journey, thickest at night, would conceal them well enough. After taking them half a mile off the path the first night, and then taking two hours to find it again next morning in the dense fog, she grudgingly agreed. And he proved right, to Firri's displeasure, as they neither heard nor saw anyone save the birds, who squawked relentlessly from dawn to midday.

Soon they were nearing the city of Creantkor, the first major city in Dorezátz, where they were supposed to report to the town official. Everyone was looking forward to having some nice inn to stay in, and the chance for a better meal. Firri was anxious to get there. She did not like the stillness of this desolate country. And she was extremely uncomfortable already because of the fog – she preferred to be able to see her surroundings clearly. In Gorgoroth one could see everything for miles around, but here it felt as though enemies were lurking behind every tree, or just out of sight in the mist. Often she would see a dark, unclear shape looming threateningly in the distance, which turned out just to be a rock or tree.

Altogether it was a very gloomy and dispirited group marching up to Creantkor. No one was speaking, and Firri was riding slightly ahead, ignoring the others. In the silence she heard quite clearly the distant thud of a warg's paws on the dirt.

Firri stopped to let the others catch up. "Quick," she said urgently, keeping her voice down, "Hide! It's most likely bandits."

Burk hopped off his warg and drew his sword. "If yer right, hidin' won't do no good. They're gonna smell us, or our wargs at least."

"There are five of us and only one or two of them," Morrick pointed out. "We have two capable soldiers."

Firri grunted in response. She didn't want to appear a coward, but she didn't want anyone to get hurt. A major injury would slow them considerably, and Firri wanted to leave as soon as she could. She didn't want to take the risk unnecessarily, and have a wounded orc to take care of.

But the others did not approve of hiding. Largg and Morrick also drew their swords, and stood on the side of the path. Soon the sound of the wargs (they could now distinctly hear two) grew louder. Firri saw two dark, indefinite shapes appear gradually through the veil of fog.

"Who lurks beside the roads of Dorezátz?" one of them called out in a loud blare as he rode up.

"Thieves, most likely," the other responded, and drew her sword. As they rode closer they could see the badges pinned on both orcs' shirts. The red Eye was clearly visible. The two of them were police.

"Wait!" Morrick cried. "We're emissaries of Sauron!"

"A likely tale," the woman said doubtfully, sneering and not lowering her sword.

"How should I prove it," Firri asked desperately, anxious to avoid confrontation.

"Give us the official map with your mission on it," she challenged. Morrick obliged, pulling it from his coat pocket. For a moment, Firri wondered why he had been carrying it, but decided to let the matter drop for the moment.

Both officers looked at it in surprise. "Why are ambassadors sent from Gorgoroth to fix the problems of Dorezátz?" the other asked at length.

"We're not _ambassadors_, just ordinary citizens doing our duty to our King," Morrick replied with a courteous smile. "What brings two police out here, may I ask?"

"There's another rebellion in Creantkor, and we were riding there to see if military force is needed."

This was news to Firri. "We were planning to ride through Creantkor!" she said crossly.

"Don't," they advised her. "Unless you want to be lynched."

Before Firri could respond, they rode off, toward the city now closed to the expectant travellers.

"Well," Firri said, and paused. "We'll make another plan then."

"I wanted a real inn, with real meat and some ale!" Largg complained.

"Can't be helped," Firri said brusquely. "I think we all wanted a rest, but we're not getting one." She got out her map to look at alternate routes.

"Alright!" she called at last, seeing no easy paths on the map. "We'll leave the trail and go east through the jungle! If we head straight east from here we go just north of Creantkor and make it to the road on the other side."

"That's insane," Morrick said. Firri looked up from her map and stared at him. It was, she felt, a direct challenge to her leadership.

"Do you have a better suggestion," she challenged.

"Yes," said Morrick. "Follow the road, which loops south and brings us south of the city, and winds up at our destination, Alzág."

"Do you realise how long that would take? At least five days, even if we gallop all the way! We can't afford that kind of delay."

"Do you realise how treacherous the jungle is?" He didn't even wait for an answer. "No, because we don't have a jungle in Gorgoroth. There are poisonous frogs, leeches, deadly fungi, killer ants…"

"I don't believe half of that," Firri said sceptically. "Those are all old wives' tales, told to frighten the little ones."

"The jungle is far less safe than the road."

"No, because further south you get farther from Barad-dûr, the centre of Sauron's sphere of influence. I don't trust the country round here, and I'm sure we'd run into some groups of bandits. And our supply of meat won't last that long!"

"But we can buy food, as we'll pass through several towns. Whereas in the jungle, we'd get lost and perish."

"I refuse to put our group at risk by taking an extra week wandering a province we don't know." Firri said with finality. "It should take less than two days to cross this jungle, and less if we start now. Let's be off, then!"

Morrick beckoned to her to follow him, and walked a short distance away from the others. Puzzled, she shrugged at the others, and went over to him.

"I'm going to settle this," he said immediately, when she came over. "Both you and I clearly want to lead this expedition. We've got to decide who should lead, and we've got to do it now."

_Well,_ thought Firri, _here we go…_

"I'm the tracker," she said. "You're only a smith. And so far we haven't had a need for your services." She believed this was sufficient ground to establish her leadership, but doubted Morrick would agree.

"Nor have we yet had a need for your services," he pointed out.

Firri indignantly started to speak her disagreement, but before she had even gotten one word out, Morrick interrupted her. "Stay your rebuttal – I'm not saying that you are any less qualified than I!"

"It was implied," she grumbled, glaring at him.

"No, and I freely admit that I too have done nothing exceptional. I just believe that one of us should succumb. We are equally qualified to lead—"

"That's what you say," Firri snorted. Morrick ignored her and continued.

"We are equally qualified to lead and are both vying for the position. I realise what it entails – do you?"

"Yes!" she responded quickly, eager to prove herself. Morrick's voluntarily agreement to step down would remove all competition against her. Firri longed to finally be in charge of an expedition, even a small one like this. She longed to ascend the social ladder, and maybe even reach the summit someday. Finally her ambition seemed to be paying off.

"Will you concede the title of 'leader' to me?" Morrick asked.

"No!" Firri yelled, appalled. Had she heard him wrong? She had thought that he was conceding to her!

"Then I have no choice," Morrick said. "The most efficient systems run from one individual only. One orc to make all the major decisions. We cannot function if we wait for a consensus on every decision – it will never come. Therefore, as you ardently refuse to give up your self-proclaimed title, I am forced to step down.

"But know this: with leadership comes a great responsibility. Our lives are in your hands now. Every decision you make, for good or for ill, affects us all. You may take full praise for any of our triumphs. And you will have to take full blame for any mistakes, or lapses in judgement. Though we may counsel you one way or the other, the final decision is yours, and you will find me obedient. Now, again, I ask you: do you still want to take us through the jungle?"

"Yes," she answered slowly. She felt less elated by his concession than she expected. It felt more like a burden than a victory.

Morrick shrugged. "Okay, then we'll go. But just know, if anyone dies there, you'll have that on your conscience."

Unexpectedly feeling rather disheartened, Firri went, with Morrick, back to the others, who had begun lunch in her absence. "Well," Sheglock asked Morrick as they approached, "Where are we going?"

"Ask Firri," Morrick said.

"Where are we going," Sheglock asked, this time directing his inquiry at Firri. "On the road, or off it?"

"The jungle," Firri said, less sure than she had been ten minutes ago. What if something bad did happen? How would she feel?

_In this land, the road's far _less_ safe,_ she reminded herself. _If one of us dies in the jungle, it's only to prevent the _three_ deaths that would happen if we took the detour._ Partially satisfied, she let the matter rest. Coming out of her thoughts, she realised Morrick was addressing the group. She groaned inwardly – he had completely ruined what should have been a celebration for her.

"And that means that she's the boss," Morrick continued, clearly referring to Firri. "If she makes a decision we are to go along with it, like it or not. I don't forbid you to counsel her, only to disagree after a final decision is made. I advised her strongly against the route she has chosen, but in vain. Now I will follow her through the jungle, though it is not at all my desire. Whatever the outcome, Firri will take the responsibility. She's the leader here."

"Hasn't she always been," Largg asked, puzzled.

"Now she is officially," Morrick said. Then he turned around to Firri. "When do we leave?" he asked her.

"After lunch," Firri said, though she had lost her apatite. The weight of responsibility seemed to settle in her heart and press against her stomach. How could she have been ignorant of how burdensome leading really was?

She peered through the mist, which was less dense here than it had been further west, and could see nothing but the numerous trees. Suddenly the jungle seemed far more ominous and foreboding. Firri sighed – she had already made her decision. She knew it was the better one. And though it would be far easier to take Morrick's suggestion, putting the blame on him, she could not. They would take the right course – the lesser of the two evils – and she would shoulder the blame.


	14. Chapter 14

**XIV**

**Ulûrk**

Ulûrk rose early the next morning, well before the crack of dawn. He dressed quickly in a heavy fur coat, as the air was frigid with the onslaught of winter. Within two minutes he was already outside, locking the door. He wanted to arrive punctually to make a good first impression on the officers.

In the dark, chilly early morning, he walked quickly toward the recruitment office. He made good time, and arrived just as the sky was beginning to lighten. He hurriedly crossed the deserted street and tried the door, which was locked. Ulûrk peered in through the door's window.

The room was gloomy and quiet. The papers from last night were still scattered over the desk. Ulûrk sighed, trying once more in vain to open the unyielding door. Then, resigned to the cold, he leaned against one of the wooden pillars propping up the awning. He wrapped himself tighter with his coat and huddled there, waiting for anyone to arrive.

Ulûrk supposed it must have been less than an hour, but it felt like two or three, before he finally heard approaching footsteps. Numbed by the debilitating cold, he forced his unwilling legs to stand up. He saw a solitary figure slowly walking toward the building.

"Ay!" he called out frantically. The approaching orc just seemed to notice him. He quickened his speed, practically running over to Ulûrk.

"You an officer?" he asked, sounding rather breathless. Ulûrk was rather disappointed.

"No, I was just gonna ask the same of ya! Ya don't happen ta have a key ta this place, d'ya?"

"No I was just looking for an officer so I could start training I enlisted yesterday and they said I could start today are you training too?" He said it all very quickly in one breath. Ulûrk was left feeling rather winded.

"Yeah, I'm joinin' the army, if that's what ya mean?"

"It is – oh gosh I'm so excited we getta fight and kill the Men it's just like how we used to swordfight with sticks as kids but real!"

"Calm down!" Ulûrk yelled.

"Calm down oh no I can't calm down I'm so excited aren't you I getta serve our country it's so noble and I'll be a hero!"

Ulûrk caught less than half of that. The orc, who seemed (at least acted) very young, was getting on his nerves. Before Ulûrk could even say anything he went on, barely pausing for breath.

"I'm so hyper that I forgot to introduce myself oh gosh oops excuse me don't think I'm impudent it was an accident it really was sorry sorry sorry oh by the way I'm Zhatren who are you?"

"What?" Ulûrk asked in irritation. "Take a breath, kid!"

"What's your name I forgot to ask you before what is it?"

"Ulûrk," Ulûrk said without much interest. Then, in an equally bored tone, he went on, "What's yers?"

"I just told you didn't I oh no did I forget anyway it's Zhatren that's my name."

Ulûrk sighed. He felt exhausted now – he was already tired from getting up so early. But this young orc – Zhatren, if he had heard correctly, sapped his energy quicker than any amount of sleep deprivation. Additionally, all of Ulûrk's own enthusiasm had evaporated. His own feelings were greatly diminished in juxtaposition with those of the overexcited kid next to him.

Zhatren went on without waiting. It didn't take much to prompt him, it seemed. "So, shouldn't we learn something about each other?" A short pause, where Ulûrk said nothing, but probably couldn't have even if he had wanted to. "Well, I'm 15 years old and I'm exactly five feet tall, to the inch. I weigh about a hundred and forty pounds or at least I did last time I checked which was about a year ago so it's probably not the same is it?"

"No," Ulûrk agreed, struggling to follow, and wondering why he even cared.

"You're right I'm probably 160 or more how about you how much do you weigh if it isn't too personal I mean no offence."

"But I'm gonna take it, if ya start askin' me about my weight."

"Oops there I go again I offend people often I'm really sorry believe me I didn't mean it like that I…"

Ulûrk stopped listening. He saw two other orcs: one walking, the other riding, toward the recruitment centre. The sun had now risen fully, and Ulûrk could clearly see that the orc walking was Barg, the same who had recruited him the night before. Moreover, he could also recognise the sharp features of Captain Khentz, mounted on a coal-black warg. He groaned quietly, cursing his ill fortune. Of all the captains in Garkhôn, he had to get assigned the one who had taken a personal grudge against him.

"Well, well, look who's here," Captain Khentz said condescendingly as he rode up. "Wanna know somethin', Mr. Smith, not just anyone can join the army. Ya gotta have skill."

"Smithery takes skill!" Ulûrk retaliated, finally losing his temper. The infuriating conversation, if he could even call it that, with Zhatren had drastically reduced his patience. He had no desire to put up with any of the captain's crap right now.

There was silence for a moment. Ulûrk stood in defiance, while Captain Khentz glared down at him and Barg hovered behind uncomfortably.

"No it doesn't," Khentz said softly. "You have _no_ skills whatsoever. And for disagreeing with me, I'm gonna have to punish you. Give me twenty pushups, and hurry, we haven't got all day!"

Ulûrk did not budge.

"Ya got to learn something, Mr. Smith. You're wrong about two things. First, moron, 'smithery' isn't even a word. Second – when I tell you to do something, move your fat ass and do it! It's fifty pushups now, and it'll be a hundred in two seconds! One…"

Ulûrk hurriedly dropped and began doing the push-ups. He was angry at himself. He shouldn't have spoken so defiantly, as his impudence served no purpose save giving the captain more reason to abuse him in the future. He grunted, arms already aching, as he went down again. He hadn't realised how much he had gotten out of shape.

Finally he finished, taking far longer than he should have. His arms were burning, and he was completely exhausted. He hoped they wouldn't be doing any physical training today.

Captain Khentz sneered as Ulûrk rose. "Took quite a long time, didn't that, Mr. Smith? You sure you're prepared for the army?"

Ulûrk deigned not to respond.

Captain Khentz laughed quietly, then went over and unlocked the door, sparing Ulûrk any further humiliation. Instantly Zhatren, who had been standing (very quietly, which was surprising) in the corner, ran over.

"Oh no so sorry that guy was a jerk he really shouldn't have said such mean things about you I'm really sorry I feel bad it's not fair—"

"Thanks fer yer concern," Ulûrk said, cutting him off. He just wanted to get rid of the lot of them. Joining the army was something he'd always wanted to do, but that was because he had assumed he would be with others like him, not a malicious captain and a fifteen-year-old, overly hyper kid.

"You're welcome I feel for you I really do I have the greatest pity my heart aches and I feel a great remorse and – oh are we going inside?" Annoyed, Ulûrk had simply walked over to the door and was opening it. To Ulûrk's frustration, Zhatren followed, keeping up his continual stream of meaningless and incomprehensible talk.

"Alrigh'," Barg said when they entered. "The two newest recruits. 'Ave any o' ya guys ever used the bow?"

"No," both said, though Zhatren said it much faster and did not stop at just one word. "I came here to learn though I really wanna get to use real weapons it's so cool isn't it—"

"Shut up!" Captain Khentz roared.

"Oops I'm so sorry I didn't mean to offend you take no offence I—"

"Do you–" the captain growled through clenched teeth, advancing menacingly, "know what – the phrase – 'shut up' – means?"

"Yes I'm sorry I'll shut up no really I will it's just that you see I have a problem, with shutting up it's not easy you—" Captain Khentz roughly grabbed him and held his hand over the poor kid's mouth. Zhatren struggled and continued mumbling, but Ulûrk couldn't understand what he was saying. Ulûrk sighed, feeling pity for the kid, but frustrated by the feeling. It wasn't so much that he liked Zhatren, rather, he just hated the captain, and didn't like to see Khentz bully _anybody_.

"Uh…" Barg muttered, unsure. He waited a while, and Captain Khentz eventually let go. Zhatren fell to the ground, clearly trying not to cry, but his cheeks were red with shame. Barg went between them and continued his inquiry.

"Ever used the axe?" Barg asked.

"Not fer more than felling trees," Ulûrk replied. Zhatren shook his head.

"The sword?" Barg asked.

"Yep," Ulûrk replied, drawing his. Again, Zhatren, who was still down on the floor, shook his head.

"Maybe you've used the sword," Captain Khentz said, walking over, "but that doesn't mean a thing. You gotta have skill with it, Mr. Smith. Else all the nasty little Men will cut your undersized head from off your puny little shoulders."

"Why don't we 'ave Ulûrk show 'is comp'tence," Barg suggested. "I'll duel 'im – we got some wooden swords in back fer mock swordfights."

"That's a good idea, Bargzer, but _I_ want to duel him."

"Is that alrigh' with ya?" Barg asked Ulûrk. Ulûrk nodded, eager for a chance to retaliate at the captain. Barg hopped over the counter and came back with two polished wooden swords which appeared fairly new.

"Jus' got 'em 'bout a month ago, when some of our old uns broke. They're a tad lighter than yer average sword, but there ain't anything we can do fer that. 'Ere ya go," he finished, giving one to both Ulûrk and the captain.

Captain Khentz glared down at Zhatren, who was still hunched in the middle of the room. "Go cry elsewhere," he growled coldly, "You're in our arena."

Zhatren jumped up, eyes puffy and swollen, and ran out the door, slamming it behind him. Captain Khentz laughed, and Ulûrk felt a sudden desire to chop his head off with the wooden sword. He grimaced, restraining himself, as in a minute he could show, through his sword, his contempt for the brutal captain.

Barg cleared the tables, giving them a decent space in the centre. Ulûrk and the captain took their places on opposite ends of the room.

"Ready, begin!" Barg called, before Ulûrk was even fully prepared. The captain lunged at him, and he had to somersault out of the way. His head banged against the desk, disorienting him. He looked up just in time to see Khentz hovering above him, grinning. Quickly he thrust out the sword in defence, righting himself at the same time. Captain Khentz brought his sword down at the same time. There was a loud, sharp crack as Ulûrk's sword splintered.

The combatants paused, and Ulûrk wiped the sweat from his brow, feeling the small lump on his head where it had made contact with the desk. Barg sighed, looking at the broken sword, which was twisted askew, and hopped the counter to fetch another. He returned with a whole bag of wooden swords, and tossed one to Ulûrk.

They resumed their positions. "Ready," Barg called, "Resume!"

This time Ulûrk was prepared, but the captain did not lunge. They stalled for a while, both walking slowly counter clockwise around the circle. Eventually, as Khentz did not seem to be making a move, Ulûrk sprang forward. Khentz deftly sidestepped and Ulûrk slammed hard into the wall, feeling his head ring.

Khentz allowed him a few seconds to recover, and Ulûrk took advantage of it, striking out. Like lightning the captain's sword appeared from nowhere, blocking his blow. They parried for a while, then Khentz thrust upward, sending Ulûrk flying backward. Ulûrk landed on his rump with a soft thud.

Quickly Ulûrk got back up, thrusting his sword at the captain. Khentz blocked it with ease, then retaliated. In one swift motion, he disarmed Ulûrk and flung him again to the ground. Ulûrk blushed with shame, as he clearly was no match to his adversary. The humiliation hurt worse than the physical pain.

"Just as I suspected," the captain said, gloating. "Utterly incompetent."

Ulûrk rose from the ground, infuriated, but controlling his temper. "That's why I'm here to train," he said matter-of-factly.

"You've got a long way to go, Mr. Smith."

Ulûrk decided it was best not to respond.

"Anyone seen the big cry-baby?" Captain Khentz asked.

"Er… no," Barg answered. He seemed, like Ulûrk, reluctant to think of Zhatren as a "cry-baby".

"Well if you do tell him to show up to-morrow at the barracks. And you too, Mr. Smith, though after seeing your 'skills' I highly recommend that you give up on your aspirations of becoming a soldier. But if you're determined, go ahead and try; you'll just make a fool of yourself like you did toady. I'm leaving – I have more important business to attend to. Good day."

He walked briskly out the door to his warg, mounted, and rode off. Barg shrugged.

"Sorry, but 'e's always been kinda a jerk."

"Not yer fault," Ulûrk said, disinclined to bring up the topic. "I gotta go home."

"Good luck with yer trainin'!" Barg called as he left. Ulûrk waved and turned away, exhausted, and angrier than ever at the evil Captain Khentz. Now he could look forward to the prospect of months of training under him. Enlisting now seemed a terrible mistake.

He sighed. There was nothing he could do now. If he quit, Khentz would assume it was out of ineptitude, and bully him more. He would lose face across the town. He would just have to put up with it and hope that he could finish his training as quickly as possible.

Eventually he would rise in rank, and maybe even become a captain himself one day.

Smiling at the prospect, he was almost skipping as he walked the rest of the way home.


	15. Chapter 15

**XV**

**Burk**

They prepared to enter the jungle at dawn of the next day. The majority of the packs and provisions were secured tightly to the wargs. Then, from the remaining packs, Firri conjured iron-soled shoes.

"You'll need these, as who knows what dangers lie in the mud and muck in the ground ahead. Morrick has told me many horror stories, and though I believe few, still… It never hurts to be cautious, I suppose. Does anyone else have any knowledge of the jungles? Every fact will help."

"I have too heard rumours," Sheglock said, then paused, hesitating.

"Pray, share them," Morrick told his brother.

"Well, it sounds really weird, but my mother always used to say 'beware the ants of Dorezátz'."

"I can only recall her saying that _once_," Morrick corrected. "Nevertheless it would be wise to heed her advice."

"Very well," sighed Firri. "Watch out for ants, I guess. Though how any number of ants could harm a full grown orc, I cannot imagine. How old were you when your aunt gave you this warning?"

"I don't remember, but I was not a child."

Burk listened dubiously. The whole thing sounded rather paranoid. He doubted that ants, being so small, could really do any harm. It was the bandits they had to worry about. But he did not voice his concern, not desirous to add more fear to the already anxious atmosphere.

They tried to set off right then, but Burk was hungry, and promptly objected. Largg quickly joined his side, so Firri, though clearly angry at the delay, obliged.

"You're leader," Morrick told her as the others unpacked the food. "You can do whatever you want."

"I'm hungry too," she replied, but Burk doubted the validity of her assertion. His belief was confirmed when she neglected to even take any food from the packs, instead glancing nervously at the trees just ahead. He wondered, as he took second helpings of some of the trolls' bird meat, whether they were in the hands of an incompetent leader who would bring them all to their deaths. Firri seemed to know naught of the anatomy of the jungle. Why then, did she elect to travel this dangerous route?

After their brunch, which was not overly hasty, despite Firri's evident desire to embark as soon as possible, they finally set out. As they got further in their progress was slowed. Brambles and creepers blocked their path, and often they found enormous ferns ahead of them, six feet high at least and perhaps ten in diameter. Getting around these obstacles was an immense pain, and they were often forced to backtrack a while and find a different route.

At length they approached some hills, and the terrain began to gradually slope upward. They forced their way through the webs of vines, soon tiring in the ceaseless toil. Firri led, using her sword as a machete to cut the vines blocking their path. Morrick took the rear, presumably making sure that nothing was dropped.

By dusk they were all exhausted, as Firri had called only three brief halts. They had travelled almost six hours, and seemingly gotten nowhere. The terrain still looked very much the same as it had at the beginning of their journey through the jungle.

That night they camped at the roots of the tress, which were very large and tall. The roots themselves were surprisingly soft, but wet, so they were not ideal. Burk settled down between two and tried to get to sleep.

Throughout the day they had seen no birds nor beasts of any kind, yet Burk had not noticed their absence. Now the forest woke up, and amidst the incessant rustlings Burk wondered that they had not yet encountered any beasts that were unfriendly or dangerous.

"Shouldn't we get someone ta watch?" he asked Firri, who was sleeping across from him. Clearly he was not the only one still awake, as the others all sat up when he spoke.

"Good idea," Firri said, sounding less than appreciative. Burk could tell she regretted the idea was not hers.

"Okay, we'll post a watch; in two hour shifts, more or less. I'll go first, then you, Burk, as it was your idea. Largg can go after you, then Sheglock and last, Morrick. I'll watch now – the rest of you, try to get to sleep."

The others lay down, but Burk still could not sleep. He was still awake when Firri came to him. He relieved her of the watch, and for two hours diligently scanned the shadows. Once there was a gleam of cold, yellow eyes, but one of the wargs growled quietly. The eyes flickered and vanished. Beyond that, the watch passed without event. By the time he woke Largg, Burk really was tired, and quickly drifted off into sleep.

The next day the fog covered the forest, and was so thick that it was impossible to see more than ten feet in any direction. Firri wanted to head off right away, but Morrick counselled her otherwise, pointing out that the chance was too great they would lose their way. They had a long rest as they waited for the fog to dissipate, which did not happen until a little before noon.

The second and third days of the journey were uneventful. The terrain changed little, and they saw few creatures, big or small. "You're lucky we tarried so long with Mark and Bob," Sheglock pointed out once as they passes a deserted termite mound. "It's winter now, and the bugs are all gone."

"Still, I want to be out of here soon," Firri replied. "I don't like this place."

"Me neither," Burk agreed. They all agreed to go faster, but their efforts proved in vain. Still the jungle set its own pace for them, and it seemed they could move no faster than it allowed.

The fourth day dawned, and the fog was less thick, so Firri had them set out early in the morning. The ground soon became boggy in places, and they had to take care to avoid those. However, advantageously, the undergrowth vanished for a while. They were in a wide sort of clearing, albeit with numerous trees blocking out the sun. In this open space they made faster progress, until Morrick stumbled and fell, flat on his face, in the mud. His flailing arms hit one of the packs, sending its contents flying.

Firri swore. "There goes a good amount of our food!" she yelled.

Morrick got up and wiped the mud from his face. He recovered some of the dried meat, which was coated in grime. "It's still edible," he noted.

"Well, you get all the grimy food then. It's your fault that it got like that."

"Very well," Morrick said, and wiped the gunk off before pocketing it. Burk wondered if he would actually eat it. He was surprised later that day when Morrick, without hesitation, took the contaminated meat from his pocket and ate it.

"The mud enhances the flavour," he joked as they set off again.

They arrived by the fifth day to a different terrain. The trees were less frequent and smaller, but the ferns were everywhere. The ground was covered in ferns, and very marshy. It proved to be utterly impassable, and they were forced for a while to travel south to avoid it.

They heard numerous croaks of tiny frogs, the first real beasts they had seen. Sheglock was clearly intrigued by the small, brightly coloured animals. He reached out to pick one up, but Burk stopped him.

"I just want to hold him," Sheglock said. "I know they are probably poisonous, but I'm not going to try eating them."

"Still, there're rumours of Dorezátzean frogs so poisonous that the mere touch o' their skin'll kill ya," Burk said. He didn't believe them, but why take the risk. "Best ta be safe, not sorry."

Sheglock laughed, but still heeded he warning. "You're getting as paranoid as the rest of us now," he said. Unfortunately, Burk realised, it was true. Like some contagious disease, the fear of the jungle had spread, until all were infected with it.

Despair also was spreading through the group of travellers. Almost the entire day they had been going in the wrong direction – for as they travelled southwards the ferns crept westward, forcing them farther from their destination. And the going was by no means pleasant. The ground was muddy, covered in a type of thick mud that gave in too easily when they stepped into it, but was reluctant to let go. Occasionally a member of the company would sink up to his (or her – Firri sunk twice) knees. Then the others paused while the unfortunate orc struggled to extricate him or herself.

Moreover, there were copious small streams blocking their passage. Though they were, at most, only waist-deep and easily forded, they were nonetheless a nuisance. The orcs were soon wet and uncomfortable. The wargs – who were less fond of the water – soon grew very grumpy and began biting the other wargs, and sometimes even the orcs. Burk received a hard, sharp bite on his leg, and swore, though his companions all fared similarly.

That night they rested by a small stream they had found, that Morrick was unwilling to cross by dark. It seemed like the journey had taken its toll on him. He, more than the others, seemed to be growing sick from the ambient hopelessness. He seemed far more feeble and pale already. Burk doubted his excuse – it seemed as though Morrick just needed rest. Nevertheless, Firri agreed, and they halted.

That night Burk had last watch, and he was woken early in the morning by Largg. "Hasn't been a sound," Largg told him as he headed out to take the watch. For over an hour he heard nothing but the faint chirp of the myriads of tiny fern-frogs.

Then, just at the break of day, he heard voices. They were harsh and deep, akin to none of the voices in Burk's company. Unnerved, he listened awhile, trying to discern what was being said. He did not have long to wait. The strangers were coming closer, and he soon could hear them quite clearly.

"Betcha ya coulda gotten a lo' more off the las'un."

"Nah, Klik, ya know what they do. First time the ransom's demanded, they pay it. Next time, they go squealing to Barad-dûr!"

"And without the Ring," added a third, "Sauron can't do squat here in Dor'zátz. Ya coulda kept the hostage. No one woulda stopped ya."

"C'mon guys!" the first retaliated. "I gocha two hundred pieces o' silva. Ain' tha' enough ta make ya sa'isfied?"

Drawing his sword, Burk crept away. He had heard enough to know they were most likely a group of Dorezátzean bandits. If he didn't warn the others fast, they would have to fight. None of them seemed, at the moment, fit for fighting. Their weariness and despair was debilitating to their physical strength as well.

Largg was already awake when he returned, and was getting out some food. "Quick," Burk whispered as he came nearer. "Put it away – there's no time. We gotta scram!"

"No time fer food!" Largg exclaimed in surprise. "I never thought I'd hear ya say that!"

Burk ignored him and went to Firri, who was still sleeping. He earnestly shook her until she groaned and sat upright.

"Get off me!" she yelled loudly, seeing Burk. Too loud, in Burk's opinion.

"Shut up – there are bandits!" he hissed. "They'll hear you!"

Firri, with an appalled expression, clasped her hand over her mouth. For almost a minute they waited in silence, afraid even to move. Then they heard the sound they had been dreading – the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps. Burk could now hear the voices again, and far too clearly.

"I reck'n't came from somewhere here'bou's," one of the bandits said, and everyone, in spite of themselves, turned to look. There were only three of them, but they were large and muscular.

"We'll have to fight," Firri said, rising and drawing her sword. Largg ran to wake Morrick, but Sheglock was already wide awake. He drew his sword, then came and stood just behind Firri and Burk.

"What do you want?" Firri called out in a loud voice. Like hunting dogs on a scent, the three bandits sprang on them. They ran over and quickly arrived in front of her. Seeing the opposition armed, they halted.

"Yer money," the largest of the three said, laughing.

"Ya asked wha' we wan'ed," one of his cronies reminded them.

"Yer not gettin' it!" Burk retorted.

"No," Firri replied. "We're emissaries from Sauron. Cross us and feel His wrath."

"We respec' Sauron as much's ya do. But he ain' helped us a' all. If he'd fix up this place, we wouldn' have ta be robbers."

"When he has the Ring, he'll fix it up," Firri assured him.

"But he doesn't," the bandit said, drawing his sword. The others followed his example.

"Do you really want to fight us?" Sheglock asked. "There are eleven of us and only three of you."

"Eleven?" the large bandit repeated uncertainly, looking round. Burk also looked backward over his shoulder. Largg was still trying, unsuccessfully, to wake Morrick. But they only made five, not eleven. Was Sheglock trying to bluff them?

"Five orcs and six wargs," Sheglock clarified. He whistled, and the six wargs ran up to him. They stood in front of the orcs, teeth bared.

"I reck'n we should respec' Sauron summore," the second bandit suggested hesitantly, looking down warily at his growing opposition. "Let's ge' outta here!"

With a command from Firri, the six wargs ran after the bandits as they fled north. Burk sheathed his sword, laughing at the comical scene. When the bandits were sufficiently bitten, the wargs turned and ran back.


	16. Chapter 16

**XVI**

**Firri**

The seventh day of their disastrous journey dawned. Firri was furious at herself. So far her decisions had all gone bad. The short cut had proven far more strenuous than the detour. She had not realised how difficult it could be to traverse these Dorezátzean jungles. Doubtless, Morrick had known, and had warned her for that reason. But she had ignored his advice altogether, bringing them nearly to their ruin. _I'm not fit to lead this group, nor to lead anyone,_ Firri thought glumly.

But it was her obligation now, since she had brought them on this ruinous path, to get them out. Already she could see the jungle around thinning. Passage was not nearly as difficult as it had been before. Moreover, the great fern marsh was, at this point, far less dense. With a lighter heart she turned east and began their day's travels.

Though no one spoke, she could sense their mood was lighter. While they had been on a southward course, they had been getting no closer to the jungle's end. Now, each step brought them closer to Alzág, and the completion of their journey. For a while their mood was joyful; Sheglock was even humming a song that sounded horribly like one of Mark's.

They still travelled slowly, stumbling amongst the thick roots of numerous tall trees. The trees, the likes of which Firri had never seen before, and knew no names for, were large and gnarled, their trunks twisting and branching into hideous forms. She felt a strange sense of unease amongst them, and felt a sudden desire for the terrain from the earlier part of their journey. Here there was no undergrowth, but she felt that they were naked, exposed to the malice of the wicked jungle.

As the day wore on, Firri's joy evaporated. She felt a heavy weight settle on her heart. All around the woods looked the same, and all around they carried a hatred, matched only by her hatred of them. She was reminded of old tales she had heard when she was very young. There were tales of a wood in the West, called Fangorn by the elves and Men, which carried some forgotten power and malice. She wondered if some of the terror of those woods had gotten into Mordor, through Sauron's guard.

The trees, whether they felt ill toward the travellers or not, or indeed whether they could feel anything at all, did not hinder their journey. They passed on as quickly as they could (which was not very fast, as Morrick, more than the others, needed to rest often.)

As the sun had just begun to set, Firri finally found what she had been searching for. Ahead there was what looked like a small clearing, but as they neared it, it became clear that it continued far both north and south. At last, after almost exactly a week of disaster, they had arrived at the road.

"We've made it!" Firri tried to yell, but her voice was soft from fatigue.

"I need to rest," Morrick said hoarsely. "We can finish in the morning."

"That's what I was planning to do. We've gone a ways south, to avoid that marsh, so we're going to be travelling north on this road awhile to compensate. Still, I daresay we'd all prefer a nice, firm path beneath our feet, regardless of the risk."

"But tonight," Largg asked, "where are we gonna sleep?"

"Beneath these trees," Firri replied. "I do not like them, but trust them to do us no harm. After all, they suffered us to pass safely through their midst. But does anyone other than I sense some evil will from them? I wonder if it is only in my imagination."

"No," Sheglock said, contemplating. "I feel it to, and only now can I pin it down as the source of my disease. There is an oppressive weight in the air."

"We're so far from Sauron and His Tower, who knows what's here," Burk added.

"It's true," Firri added. "Without the ring, Sauron cannot keep evil wholly from our land. Perhaps these trees are remnants of some spell of the elves."

"Or maybe ya guys are seein' more in this than there really is," Largg suggested. "I feel nothin' but weary and ready fer a rest."

"I agree," Morrick said, and promptly laid down. Within minutes he was deep asleep. Sheglock shrugged.

"Well, you won't be able to wake him; that's one thing I've learned about my brother. When he goes to sleep, he does it with expertise."

"Then we have no choice but to rest here," she said. "But don't rest against the trees, or their roots!"

They heeded her warning, and soon were all peacefully asleep in the clearings between the great trucks. Firri took far longer to get to sleep. Hundreds of doubts whirled around her head. Had she done the right thing, leading them through this abhorrent jungle? Finally, long after the moon had risen high into the sky, she closed her eyes.

The next day dawned chilly but clear, and the travellers set out before breakfast, desiring to leave the forest as soon as possible. In less than ten minutes, they were out onto the road.

"Well, now all we need to do is go north, until we hit Alzág," Firri said. With the possible exception of Morrick, everyone seemed cheered by this news. Firri watched Morrick, who was looking pale and saying nothing, waiting for an I-told-you-so, or anything of that nature. It did not come. Morrick just shrugged and started walking.

Firri was puzzled, but also began walking north. The others, though, did not follow.

"Uh – Firri, Morrick, shouldn't we ride?" Sheglock asked hesitantly.

"Oh, yeah – I forgot! We've been leading our wargs so often I almost mixed them up with domestic dogs! I wasn't even considering riding them."

"Which is why the warg makes a better pet," Sheglock said as she turned back and mounted her warg. "They're practical companions, and far more obedient. Just the traits that you love, brother."

Morrick grunted as he walked by, and Sheglock gave Firri a puzzled look.

They unloaded the provisions from the wargs that were carrying any, and all mounted their wargs. Then they started off again, but at a walk, not a gallop. They had no need of haste.

They travelled for some time, stopping at midday. Firri realised that they had not yet had any food. She opened the bag carrying their diminishing food supply and passed out all that was left.

"We'll be able to buy more at the city, I hope. But here's the Man-flesh that we saved. After our unhappy journey through that harsh jungle, I daresay we need it."

The others eagerly ate their meat, but Firri took none for herself. _I got them, into this mess,_ she thought. _I don't deserve to celebrate._

Feeling both incompetent and stupid, and depressed by those feelings, Firri retreated to the eaves of the forest and hung her head. All her choices as leader had gone amiss. How could she ever make it up to them. She could resign her position to Morrick, who, because she had erred, was looking feeble and weak. She could put the responsibility on his shoulders; let him make the decisions, and take the blame. But some voice in the back of her head told her that that was the easy was out of it all. She would have to make up for her mistakes, by making better decisions in the future. It was her error, not Morrick's, and she, not he, was responsible.

She heard marching in the distance, and was pulled out of her own swirling thoughts. Quickly, she returned to the road, staring north, the direction which the sound was coming from. Firri started; there was a large host marching toward them, with large shields and long, lethal looking halberds. As they came closer, Firri could see that they were no orcs, but Men. Hope deserted her, and she didn't even try to flee. The rest of the company likewise did not move, whether paralysed by fear or despondence she could not tell. The five orcs waited, listening to the slow, steady drumbeats, sure that they had met their doom.

The first Men soon came in sight of the orcs. They did not break formation, but marched straight up to Firri and the others. The captain, who bore a shield of gold with intricate designs, stepped forward. Firri was the first to speak.

"What are you and your Men doing in Mordor?"

"Speak in a manner we all may understand," he answered in the Common Tongue. "Is this not the language of the West?"

"It is," Firri answered in the same language. "But Mordor is in the East."

"Not by our reckoning. Nine and ninety leagues some of us have travelled, and others thrice that, from the far East, toward the evil land of Gondor. Now let me speak to the leader of your band."

"You are," Firri replied.

"But you are a woman – wise Men know that women are ill equipped to lead. They are too emotional and unpredictable!"

"Are they?" Firri asked calmly, furious at the accusation, but determined to prove him wrong. "I could say the same for Men."

"Men are not emotional, but born to rule!" he almost yelled.

"My point exactly," Firri said, glad to have proven her argument. "But I do not believe we are enemies, for the enemies of Gondor are our friends. Let us put aside our differences in gender – and species – for the time being. If we fight amongst ourselves, it serves no good but to our common enemy, Gondor.

"And for what purpose do you enter Mordor? Or do you seek to pass through? But be warned – unless it is the will of Sauron none may enter our land, or cross through it."

"Such is not our intention. Our destination, in fact, is the great Tower of the Eye itself."

"So where is your allegiance?" Firri asked.

"To Sauron and to the East. We are known in your lands as the Easterlings. We have been summoned by Sauron to aid in the coming war. We have been promised great gifts, when we win. So we travelled by many long roads, forgotten in the span of time, or seldom used and overgrown with weeds. We seek Barad-dûr, and the command of the great Eye."

"That you will not find in Dorezátz," Morrick said in a hoarse voice, joining the conversation. "Head west still, until you come to the great Plateau of Gorgoroth. There you shall see on one side Orodruin, Mountain of Fire. And on the other you will find the stronghold of Sauron that you seek." This short speech seemed to exhaust Morrick, and he sighed, retreating.

"We were told there is a civil war, and the way onward is blocked."

"It is true, but the road you are on joins with the other, and leads eventually to Gorgoroth."

"Very well – it is time we set off again."

"May the will of Sauron guide you," Firri replied, bowing. Then she stepped aside, and the orcs cleared the road. Then the Men fell back into formation, and began marching at a quick pace. There were five abreast in each row, and countless rows of term. All their shields were shiny and strong, and their axes and halberds were sharp. Firri marvelled at the obedience and skill they had. Whoever had trained them had done it very well. They moved in a synchronised, flowing manner, never slackening or quickening their pace. When Sauron got the ring, Firri knew, all the soldiers of Mordor would be equally coöperative, governed by His hand. Then Mordor would be utterly invincible.

It took a while for all the Men to clear the road. Firri estimated that there were at least four hundred of them. When the last rows had passed far beyond earshot, Largg turned to Firri, puzzled. "What was that about?"

"Those Men are Sauron's allies," she replied. "Didn't you hear?"

"I don't speak any tongue but ours. Ya guys all were speaking' in somethin' else."

"They knew the language of the West."

"But why'd Sauron allow _Men_ to enter Mordor?" Burk asked. "I understood what the Men said, but doubt it was true."

"They're our enemies!" Largg added.

"The Men of Gondor are enemies," Sheglock told him. "These were good Men, coming at a time when we need aid."

"And they'll make good slaves, when this is all done," Burk said.

"No," Firri replied. "Sauron keeps His promises. They will be citizens of Mordor, while all the rest of Middle Earth our slaves. They were wise to pick the winning side."

"But they are inferior to orcs."

"Yes, but they'll be citizens still, not slaves. And they will likely return to their own land, when the wars with Gondor are finished. Come on, now, let's hurry to Alzág! We may even arrive ere the sun sets."

With that they set out again on the last leg of their journey.


	17. Chapter 17

**XVII**

**Morrick**

Morrick was feeling nauseous as they bumped down the poorly maintained road to Alzág. But the unpleasant feeling came as no surprise. He had been feeling unwell over the past few days. The journey through the jungle had been worse than even he had anticipated. Possibly, he realised, the stress had made him ill.

He sighed and groaned, feeling like he was going to be sick. The bumps were making him feel worse. He pulled on the reins slightly to slow the warg. The bumping lessened, but did not stop entirely.

"Come on, Morrick," Firri called. "Hurry up. I see some tents ahead. We must've reached the outskirts of the town, at least."

Morrick sped up, feeling the bad sensation return. He was sorely tempted to dismount and walk. But he was loathe to hold up all the others. _It's not the logical thing to do. I am part of a group. What's best for them is best for me._

They passed shabby tents on each side. They seemed to be the temporary houses of some Men. These were more Easterlings, likely also journeying to Barad-dûr. Several of them waved at the passing orcs, but none (save, of course, his brother) acknowledged it.

The trees on either side thinned, eventually receding toward the horizon. Ahead they saw a great wall, and a mighty citadel within. The castle itself was about four stories tall, with many battlements and spires. Three towers it had, one in the centre, with a smaller one upon either side. The city was a fortress, and, Morrick realised with dismay, if they refused to pay, Sauron would be hard pressed to force them to. The city of Alzág could be very easily defended against siege, for a long while.

As they rode up to the gate Morrick noticed the surprising contrast between this city and his own. Garkhôn was not walled, but open and unprotected. Perhaps, he realised, there was need of protection here. Not from invasion, but from bandits who roamed the province. In Dorezátz, it was clear that there was far less trust in Sauron and His ability to maintain peace.

"A little overly paranoid, if ya ask me," Burk laughed. "Wait till Sauron gets the Ring. Then it'll all seem so unnecessary!"

Morrick nodded in agreement, but no one else saw him. They rode up to the gate, a large wooden structure at least fifteen feet high. Firri dismounted and banged thrice on the door.

A guard emerged from a side room and surveyed the newcomers. "What may ya five be doin' in Alzág, after dark?" he asked suspiciously.

"We've come all the way from Gorgoroth, under Sauron's orders," Firri answered. "Pray do not hinder us."

"If yer truly under His orders, ya may, of course, enter. But have ya any proof?"

Morrick, feeling light-headed, tried to get the map. He reached over with his left hand, trying to reach his pocket, while keeping his right hand firmly gripping the reins. But, unexpectedly, he lost his balance and fell off the warg. The warg barked angrily, trying to extricate himself, as Morrick still held the reins. Realising this, he let go of them. He closed his eyes and lay there, on the cool stone floor, as his head swam.

"Our friend is sick!" Firri shrieked hysterically, as if noticing it for the first time. He felt her trying to lift him off the ground.

"Are you okay?" she asked in an anxious tone.

"Fine," Morrick muttered, though he felt nauseous again. Just in time he turned away from Firri, as he vomited all over the ground.

"Go right in!" cried the guard. "Use this side door – it's faster. And you can find someone there, I'm sure, who will care for him!"

"Thank you," Firri cried. Morrick felt at least three of the orcs lift him and begin moving.

"I can walk," he protested. They ignored him, carrying him quickly through the guard's room. Morrick closed his eyes, letting the cool night breeze blow across his face.

He woke, from a sleep he had not intended to take, on a soft, feathery bed. Still a little dizzy, Morrick looked around. He was in a stone house, well furnished, with an ornate rug on the ground, and several tapestries hanging on the opposite wall. He saw that the artwork, at least, depicted Sauron, one tapestry bore the likeness of Barad-dûr, while the other depicted what Morrick assumed was the battle of the Last Alliance.

He looked right, and saw that there was a roaring fire in the large hearth. On the mantle lay a long, sheathed sword. It looked to be of Elven craft, and Morrick wondered what it was doing here. Was he somehow a prisoner of the Elves?

On a small bed-stand to his left Morrick found cooked meat. It was still hot, and he ate it eagerly. He relished the sweet taste of the Man-flesh, at the same time realising he could not possibly be a prisoner. Elves would never serve Man as food.

Just then the door opened, and five orcs walked in. Firri came in the lead, followed by Largg, Burk, and his brother. But the fifth orc he did not recognise. He was very tall and powerful-looking, and was dressed in new, shiny armour. He looked to be very old, eighty at the least. It was he who first approached Morrick.

"I hope you do well," he said. "You may not know me, as you were asleep when we brought you in. I am Kâlask, and this is my house."

"I thank you much, sir, for your generous hospitality," Morrick replied, trying to raise himself off the bed. He rose partway to a sitting position, and offered his hand, which Kâlask took.

"He's willing to keep us here until you improve," Firri explained. "And I shall pay out of my own purse. It's the least I can do, for I am sure it was my errors which caused this. That jungle possessed some witchcraft – that I know now! And, when you are better, you shall lead, not I!"

"You're a fine leader," Morrick said in a weak voice. It did naught to console her.

"Rest, and try to heal," Kâlask advised. "Sleep as oft you can."

"But I feel no fatigue now," Morrick said. "Please, sir, tell me something of yourself."

"As you wish, if I have your promise that you shall rest afterwards. What would you like to know of me?"

"I am curious, but did you serve in the army? You're dressed as though you did."

"I did, as Sauron was rising in power. I was there at the conquest of Osgiliath. O, I recall vividly the many banners of the silver tree, each and everyone set aflame and burned to the ground. We thought that Gondor had at last fallen. The line of kings had failed, and our knowledge of war craft was far superior to theirs. But they retreated to Minas Anor, and renamed it Minas Tirith. They still hold up a futile resistance there."

"But for me, I was finished with my service. And I had been wounded, though not fatally. I received a blow to the arm, and now cannot move my right arm so freely. You may have noticed it as I walked up. I was not fit to serve, but I took my heirloom, the sword you see over there on the mantle. It was the blade of the enemy who disabled me. It is a truly amazing weapon, and has some old magic in it. See!"

He reached over and unsheathed the sword, and they saw that it glowed with a blue light. "It is very old, wrought in ages long forgotten. What its secret is, I do not know. But here it lies, my chief treasure. Does that appease you?"

"For the time," Morrick answered. "I've no doubt that you are a valiant hero. And again I thank you for letting me rest here."

"_That_ I shall do. I shall let you rest! Come, let us vacate the room, and allow your friend to recover." he sheathed the sword, set it back on the mantle, and left the room, the others following. They closed the door, and Morrick, with nothing to do, soon fell asleep.

The days passed, and at first Morrick appeared to be recovering. He felt stronger, aided by the generous helpings of savoury meat he was offered by his host. Often he would find strength to stand and walk around the room for a while, or to talk with his friends and brother.

But, almost a week after he entered the city of Alzág, Morrick had another spell where he became seriously ill. He rolled off the bed, and crashed onto the floor. He was dizzy and light-headed, and lost all sense of direction. He vomited more than once, hacking up what looked like blood. The next morning he felt faint and weak, and for several days he could not leave the bed. He had a fever that went on for almost a week.

Eventually he again found enough strength to see his friends, and Firri came rushing in. She collapsed at the side of his bed, holding his hand in hers.

"How could I have done this to you!" she wailed.

"You didn't! Be at peace. It's not your fault!"

Morrick hadn't expected her to listen, and she didn't. "What can I do for you?"

"For me, nothing," Morrick replied. "But for Sauron, you can do much. Go to the citadel, and talk with the governor of this town. Get the payments. Complete our mission. That's what you can do."

"How will that help you?"

"My heart will be lighter, knowing that it has been done, or at least attempted. And all that aids Sauron aids me. I am His servant, and if you do a deed for Him, it will pass onto me."

Firri sighed. "Even when your like is balanced at the tip of a knife, your loyalty does not waver. You know, that has always impressed me. I'll do as you ask, but hang on while I'm gone. I should like to be able to speak with you again, before…" her voice faded off into silence. Morrick, however, knew what she was going to say.

"I won't die," he said, as much to himself as to her.

A month passed, and still Morrick hung on. His condition grew steadily worse, though there were times when he was quite well, and almost jovial. Likewise there were periods when the fever consumed him, and he lost consciousness for hours. Through these times Firri was often at his side, ready with a cool rag to place on his burning forehead, or with warm tea if he had the chills. When he was convulsing and vomiting all over, she was at his side, ready with words of comfort.

But during the calm periods she was seldom seen, as she tried endlessly to persuade the town officials to pay the tax. Each time she failed, she simply went back the next day, with a determination that Morrick had never seen before. It lifted his heart to see how well she had learned to really take the initiative, and make decisions. She had really become a responsible leader.

His brother Sheglock, however, grew increasingly worried about him. Once, as he was lying in bed, he overheard a debate between them. It seemed that Sheglock wanted to leave and get help.

"At Barad-dûr they have a record of every herb ever collected from the East, West, North, or South! They have lists of every disease known to Man, Orc, or Elf. Surely they would have the cure!"

"But to journey there would take two weeks, at least. What if he doesn't make it!"

"That is a chance I am willing to take. It's either that, or wait until the disease kills him!"

"We can wait for it to go away, naturally," Firri suggested.

"We've tried already – it didn't! It's only gotten worse!"

"But I can't leave him!"

"I never asked you to. I will go – after all, I'm his brother. You stay here and give him the care he needs."

Firri protested a little more, but Sheglock refused to be swayed. The next day they came and informed him of the plans.

"He'll leave in a week," Firri told him. Morrick nodded.

That morning he and Sheglock worked together to write a letter to Ulûrk, who they had not seen or heard from since they left Gorgoroth. Sheglock planned to stop by Garkhôn and deliver it.

"He'll love to hear from us," Sheglock said. "He probably has no clue where we are, or even whether we're still alive. I think this will make him feel better."

Morrick nodded – he was feeling nauseous again. His brother noticed this and closed the door, to let him rest.

That night he had one of the worst spasms yet. His fever peaked and he felt as though his head was going to explode. He had a horrible splitting headache, and his vision grew blurry. He fell from the bed, flailing his arms helplessly. Dimly, he could sense Firri beside him, trying to help. He choked and spat up blood.

"You'll be alright," Firri said, but her voice sounded faint and distant. The pain in his head mounted, and the cool rags did naught to alleviate it. Again, Morrick grew dizzy, disoriented, and time seemed to pass quickly, or not at all. Had one day passed, or many – he could not tell. Like shadows, the myriads of people seemed to swarm around him, and he felt disconnected from them, as though he lived in a different world than they did.

At last his body could take no more. He closed his eyes and fell into a deep coma.


	18. Chapter 18

**XVIII**

**Firri**

They rushed through the guardhouse, holding Morrick, and trying not to bump him. Firri couldn't believe she had not noticed how seriously ill he had been. They carried him out the back door and into the chilly night.

"I can walk," Morrick muttered feebly, but they ignored him. Firri knew they needed to get him into a house. Leaving Sheglock, Largg, and Burk to hold Morrick, she frantically knocked on the door of the first house she could find.

An old woman-orc opened the door. "What's the matter?" she asked.

"Our friend is very ill! We need shelter for him!"

"Sorry," she said, seeming genuinely sorry, "But there's no room here. Try asking Kâlask, an old patriot. He's really kind, and would let your friend rest in his house for a long time."

Firri got directions, hurriedly thanked her, then, running, led the others to the house that the old lady had pointed out.

She knocked on the door, and an important-looking orc, old but strong, opened it. "Help," was all Firri could manage, but he understood. He quickly ushered them inside and laid Morrick on a nice, soft bed. Firri was impressed by the grandeur of the house's décor. There were numerous rugs, fireplaces, and tapestries on the walls, as well as many old relics from the battlefield – a broken shield, several swords, and a large bow.

"Your friend will do well here," Kâlask told them. "Let him rest until he is fit to leave." Firri thanked him many times over, offering payment, but he declined.

"Not now. If he is healed and you so desire, you may pay me. But I will take naught in advance."

Over the next few days Morrick seemed to improve. Firri apologised constantly to him, but he made light of it, claiming it was not her fault. But she was relieved – whatever had been afflicting Morrick seemed to be gone. Slowly he was recovering, and she hoped that, in another week, they could leave.

However, his healing did not last. One night Firri woke to a loud crash from Morrick's room. Feeling her way through the hall, she found the door and opened it. She grabbed a lantern and lit it, looking toward the bed. Morrick was gone!

Panicking, Firri swung the lantern around. She heard the others stirring behind her. Largg gasped. "He fell! Look there!"

Firri followed his gaze, and, sure enough, Morrick lay unconscious in a pool of vomit and blood. Kâlask rushed out and returned with a wet towel and a mop, and cleaned both Morrick's face and the floor. Firri and Sheglock lifted Morrick back to the bed. The two of them stayed through the night to make sure nothing else happened.

"It's not your fault, you know," Sheglock told her as they waited.

"So he says," Firri replied. "If only my conviction was as strong as yours."

"No one blames you. You don't have to stay."

"But I want to."

In the morning, Morrick woke, and, in a faint voice, assured her that he was fine. Firri sincerely doubted that, and said so.

"No, I'm feeling better now. But fetch a bucket, just in case." He tried to sit up, but collapsed back onto the bed. Firri felt his forehead, and found he was running a fever.

"We'll leave you to rest," she said, and left him alone.

For almost two days Morrick was too sick to have company. Firri was growing increasingly anxious for him. Also, she was feeling very guilty of the intrusion they had made into Kâlask's life. Again she offered to pay.

"Don't you fret about it. I desire nothing more than the chance to help others. As a warrior, I helped our country by taking likes. It is time for me to aid in saving one."

The third day after he had fallen from his bed, Morrick called that he was ready to see the others. Firri came rushing in and grabbed his hand.

"How could I have done this to you!" she wailed in anguish.

"You didn't!" he said softly. "Be at peace. It's not your fault!"

"What can I do for you?" Firri asked desperately, ignoring his reassuring words.

"For me, nothing," Morrick replied. Firri glared at him, and he continued. "But for Sauron, you can do much. Go to the citadel, and talk with the governor of this town. Get the payments. Complete our mission. That's what you can do."

"How will that help you?" Firri asked, wondering why he should think, for even one minute, that some stupid mission from that idiot, Captain Khentz, could be more important to her than he was.

"My heart will be lighter," Morrick answered, "knowing that it has been done, or at least attempted. And all that aids Sauron aids me. I am His servant, and if you do a deed for Him, it will pass onto me."

Firri sighed, resigned to his fierce allegiance. "Even when your like is balanced at the tip of a knife, your loyalty does not waver. You know, that has always impressed me. I'll do as you ask, but hang on while I'm gone. I should like to be able to speak with you again, before…" She stopped speaking, unwilling even to consider that outcome.

"I won't die," Morrick assured her, though he seemed unable to convince himself.

Firri set out soon after to obey Morrick's command. She took her warg (Kâlask had allowed them to use his stables, which were part of the house, though he owned no warg), and set out to the citadel. It was less than five minutes ere she arrived.

There was an inscription above the open doors. Firri paused a moment to read it. On top, in the fiery script of Mordor, was written "The grand city of Alzág". Beneath was a motto – "Strength in Independence". Firri sighed. Clearly, getting them to pay taxes to Barad-dûr would not be an easy feat.

She tethered the warg to a post outside and climbed the stairs into the castle. A guard stopped her.

"Where in Dorezátz do you think you're going?" he demanded.

"I'm on a mission from Sauron." she replied, wondering if they would refuse her.

"Really?" he asked incredulously, staring at her.

Firri took out her map, which was stamped, in the top right corner, with the red Eye. The guard scrutinised it closely, then sighed.

"Go on, then. The governor is straight ahead, upstairs."

She thanked him, and followed his directions, ignoring the many passages on either side. The castle was like a city in itself – it was enormous. The hall she was walking through could easily fit a thousand orcs.

At the end of the hall was a grand staircase, over thirty feet wide, and with many steps. She climbed this and entered a smaller chamber, lined on both sides with elaborate columns. There was a fancy red carpet that ran from the top of the stairs, down the hall, to the door at the end. Firri quickly crossed the hall, and knocked on the door. It was opened by one of the guards.

"What is your business here," the guard demanded.

"I come with a request from Sauron."

"Out with it!" he yelled.

"It is meant for the governor," Firri explained.

"Then, Ulan, step aside, and let me hear it," said a voice from within. The guard stepped aside, and Firri found herself face to face with a monstrous orc. The governor of Alzág was enormous, and intimidating. But Firri did not step back.

"The Eye demands payment of the tax on this city," she told him.

"Payment?" he asked dangerously.

"You owe to Sauron," she checked the map, "the sum of 252,108 silver coins."

"That is a lot of money," he said slowly. "Why should I pay?"

"Because Sauron is the master to all of us. He looks over all of Mordor, and protects it all. He holds our country together, and prevents anarchy. But to do so He requires money…"

"Are you so sure of this? All of Mordor, you say? Since when has Dorezátz been omitted from His list? Why, tell me, has the city of Alzág not seen or heard aught of Sauron for months? Tell me this."

"He is, I agree, currently focusing his efforts westward, to the war. Maybe Dorezátz has been overlooked. But when the war ends, he will be able to focus on your city."

"Look around," he told her. "Our roads are overgrown. Bandits roam freely through our province. This city is walled to save itself, because without a wall, crime would drastically increase. No one in Dorezátz is comfortable sleeping alongside the road, in fear of crooks. Tell me, what has Sauron done about that?"

"He will help," Firri insisted. "Now Sauron is focused solely on the wars, and finding the Ring. But there is your answer. When He reclaims the Ring, Sauron will have the strength to fix your roads. His influence will cover not only Dorezátz, but all of Middle Earth! So be patient, and pay your due, to be repaid with interest in the near future."

"It makes no sense, to me, to pay for a good before I receive it. Would you ever do so? Who pays the merchant before receiving the meat?"

Firri decided to try a different track. "But you must support the war! If Sauron loses, it will be the ruin of us all."

"Not us. Our motto is 'Strength in Independence.' We can survive, and we will, whether Sauron wins or not."

"You refuse to pay?" Firri asked for clarification.

"Until He fixes my city, I will give naught to Sauron."

"Very well," Firri said, sighing. "I'll return tomorrow to see if you change your mind." With that she turned her back on the governor of Alzág and walked briskly from the room.

Firri kept her word, returning the next day, but the governor remained stubborn. He made the same points as before, but he spoke with passion, refusing to give in to Sauron before He upheld His half of the deal. Their conversation went very much the same as it had before. The only difference was how it terminated – she quit because the governor asked her to leave, rather than by her own choice.

Still, in the weeks that followed, she returned. Soon the governor's guards began to occasionally deny her entry. Not much later, the guards of the entire citadel did likewise. But she was not dissuaded, she went to writing them long letters demanding the payment.

Morrick, whose health fluctuated wildly, seemed pleased with her attempts. He did not care that she was failing, only that she was trying so hard. Indeed, when he was feeling up to it, he would often aid in writing the letters. Once, even Kâlask wrote a portion for her, with exceptional eloquence. But even this did naught to change the stubborn ruler's views.

Morrick meanwhile, was slowly getting worse, and Sheglock had begun to fret. She was anxious too, but unwilling to desert him. After a particularly tiresome day, she finally confronted him about the matter, stopping him outside Morrick's (he was resting again) door.

"You think we can go and get help," she stated. "How? Where do you plan to go?"

"To the great Tower," Sheglock answered, seeming as though he had made this decision long before. "It will not take too long, and I will get a cure."

"How do you know there even is a cure?" Firri challenged.

"There has got to be!" Sheglock replied passionately, banging his fist against the wall. "At Barad-dûr they have a record of every herb ever collected from the East, West, North, or South! They have lists of every disease known to Man, Orc, or Elf. Surely they would have the cure!"

"But to journey there would take two weeks, at least," she argued. She was loath to leave Morrick through what might be his last days on Middle Earth. She lowered her voice. "What if he doesn't make it!"

"That is a chance I am willing to take," he said heavily, staring past her to the closed door to his brother's room. "It's either that," he paused, and sighed again, "or wait until the disease kills him!"

"We can wait for it to go away, naturally," Firri suggested, though she knew well how poorly that had worked. Over the past month he had grown weaker and his condition had gradually worsened. Sheglock confirmed her observation with his next comment.

"We've tried already – it didn't! It's only gotten worse!"

"But I can't leave him!" She was desperate for an excuse. Anything to keep her from deserting him. She knew that she had caused this trauma. The least she could do would be to stand by him through it all.

"I never asked you to," Sheglock replied slowly. "I will go – after all, I'm his brother. You stay here and give him the care he needs."

Firri was shocked. "You go? Alone!"

"It's what he needs."

"But you're his brother – you can't leave him!"

"I need to!"

She gave up her futile attempts to deter him. He seemed set on leaving. And, in the back of her mind, she knew that it was probably the only way. Naught but the might of Sauron could save Morrick now.

Sheglock planned to set out at the end of the week. He and Morrick (who was feeling relatively well at the time) composed a letter to one of their old friends from Gorgoroth, which Sheglock planned to drop by as he passed. Firri advised them against this, as the detour would take a day, at least. But Morrick seemed carefree, and did not think a few days would matter much.

That night she woke to a yell and a crash. Fearing the worst, she ran to Morrick's room. She found that the reality was even worse than she had feared. He was running a horrible fever, and, though Firri soon brought him cold, wet rags, they did no help. He was lying on the ground, delirious, arms and legs flinging wildly. His body shuddered and seized, and he retched up blood. Firri knelt down beside him and held him in her arms.

"You'll be alright," she said soothingly, trying to fight the fear that was overpowering her reason. He shuddered again, mumbling incomprehensibly, for a few minutes, until at last he fainted, becoming still and lifeless.

"Go!" Firri yelled, turning to Sheglock, who has come in behind her. "Ride to Barad-dûr! Go now, before it's too late!"

Before she had even finished, he was off. Largg, Burk, and Kâlask came forward. They helped return Morrick to his bed, where he lay like a dead thing.

He slipped in and out of consciousness through the next few days. Firri was there to support him, though she doubted he could sense her. He seemed reduced to the most primordial state; he could breath, and sometimes eat, but not much else. Still she cared tirelessly for him, and hoped for a miracle, but, unlike before, he did not improve.

The third day after Morrick had become entirely bedridden, a messenger from Gorgoroth rode to their door. Firri had entirely forgotten about the mission, as she had been preoccupied with worry. Now she realised that it was still incomplete, and feared retribution.

Such however, were not the messenger's intentions. He rode up on a sleek black warg and asked to see Burk. Firri, who had opened the door, summoned him, then left to check on Morrick. In a few minutes, both Burk and Largg came to her.

"We're leaving," Burk announced. "Sauron is summoning all members of the army."

Firri sighed, the news more than she could take at the moment. "So I guess our camaraderie ends," she said absentmindedly.

"We gotta serve," Largg told her.

"It's fine. I understand; to Sauron there are things more important than Morrick. Were he awake, he would likely agree."

"Don't think we're ditchin' you!" Burk cried. "It's just that I received an order from Sauron, to leave. That orc outside, Tesatak, he called himself, he was sent to find every soldier and…" He faded to silence upon seeing the dejected the look on Firri's face.

"That's alright," she said, feeling rather empty inside. To her, it just seemed a very unfitting end to their friendship. She felt like, one by one, their group was fracturing. She had tried to lead, and hold them together, but everything had collapsed around her. Now it would be only her and, she glanced sideways at his pale face, Morrick.

"We'll write ta ya," Largg promised. "And when the wars are over, we can meet up again."

Firri sighed. "I look forward to it." There followed a brief moment of awkward silence. Firri stared off into space, looking around the room. She noticed that Sheglock's letter was still there. It was the one he had written with Morrick, to their friend in Gorgoroth. Sheglock, in the haste of the emergency, had forgotten. She was sure Morrick would have wanted it delivered.

"Come on!" the messenger yelled from the door.

"Well, uh – I guess it's good-bye, then," Burk said uncertainly. Firri nodded.

"Take this letter to our town, when you get there," she said, taking the letter off Morrick's bedside table. She handed it to Largg, then shook both their hands.

"Good luck in the battles," she added as they turned to leave. "Fight valiantly for our country, for Mordor, for Sauron. And return home safely afterwards!"

"Thanks," Burk replied, waving, as he and Largg walked out the door. "And the same to you guys. I hope Morrick heals soon!"

The door swung shut, and they were gone.


	19. Chapter 19

**XIX**

**Sheglock**

As Morrick's condition steadily grew more severe, Sheglock grew antsy, anxious to do something. So far, for almost a month, they had stood around, watching him die. They needed to go and get the cure, Sheglock thought. He doubted that it would come to them. He thought a while on how to best get a cure.

He knew that certain herbs had medicinal properties. Maybe they could go to Barad-dûr to get some. Sheglock had heard stories of the might of Sauron's tower. It was said that He had a collection of every herb, and every plant, and a knowledge of the properties of each. One of them would have to ride to Barad-dûr, and he desired to go. He was feeling helpless just watching and waiting. Morrick was his brother, after all. An unsurpassable desire came over him to actively do something to help.

Firri noted his restlessness, and confronted him one day about it.

"You think we can go and get help?" she asked, though it was more a statement than a question. "How? Where do you plan to go?" She seemed to be mocking him.

But Sheglock had an answer prepared. He outlined his plan to her.

"But to journey there would take two weeks, at least," she argued. "What if he doesn't make it!"

"That is a chance I am willing to take," Sheglock replied heavily, not really looking at her. He didn't even like to think of that outcome. "It's either that, or wait until the disease kills him!"

"We can wait for it to go away, naturally," Firri suggested, as though it was a new idea. They had already tried that, for more than a month, and to no avail.

"We've tried already," he reminded her. "It didn't! It's only gotten worse!"

"But I can't leave him!" Firri cried. Was that her problem? He had not intended to go with her.

"I never asked you to. I will go – after all, I'm his brother. You stay here and give him the care he needs."

Firri seemed shocked. "You go? Alone!"

"It's what he needs."

"But you're his brother!" she objected. "You can't leave him!"

Sheglock sighed heavily. "I need to!"

She gave up, and allowed him to make plans to leave. He and Firri came in next morning, to tell him of the plan.

"I'm going to ride back to Gorgoroth," Sheglock told Morrick. He nodded. "I'm going to Barad-dûr, to get a cure. Sauron can save you."

"He'll leave in a week," Firri added. Morrick nodded again. He seemed to have trouble speaking. Sheglock was concerned.

"You all right?"

"I'm fine," he rasped. "It's just – Ulûrk. I was thinking of him."

"He's got to be worried!" Sheglock exclaimed, amazed that he had forgotten. His brother's illness had been the only thing on his mind. "I can drop a letter by as I ride through."

"Good idea," Morrick said, struggling to smile. "Let's do that."

He dictated, and Sheglock wrote what he said, occasionally adding a phrase or two of his own. He was shocked at how soft and hoarse his brother's voice had become.

"He'll love to hear from us," Sheglock said when they had finished. "He probably has no clue where we are, or even whether we're still alive. I think this will make him feel better."

Morrick nodded again, and Sheglock assumed he needed rest. He smiled at his brother and set the letter on the small bedside table, then left to give his brother some quiet and peace.

That night he was woken by a violent crash from Morrick's room. He got up, grabbed a lantern, and rushed to his brother's room. Largg, Burk, and Kâlask followed him.

When they arrived, Firri was already there, leaning over Morrick. She turned around when they entered.

"Go!" she yelled to him. "Ride to Barad-dûr! Go now, before it's too late!"

Sheglock was off before she had even finished. He rushed to the stables, saddled Merân and grabbed a nearby pack of provisions, and galloped off.

Soon he came to the southern gate of Alzág, which was shut and locked. Frantically, he banged on the door of the guardhouse.

"You seem always ta travel by night, eh?" the inquisitive guard remarked. "What's it this time?"

"I need to leave!" Sheglock cried. "My brother is dying! I need to get a cure!"

"Come through the house again – it's faster!"

Sheglock thanked him, then hurriedly led Merân through the house. She quickly brought him to the other door. Sheglock tuned back to the guard.

"One more thing. Is the road to Creantkor safe?"

"Yeah," he answered. "Rebellion's died down."

Again Sheglock thanked him hastily, then rode off. He encircled the city (having exited on the opposite side to that road, as he had not expected the path through Creantkor to be open), and quickly reached the crossroads to the north. Here he turned left, toward Gorgoroth, and started down the road.

For two days he rode down it, following the road as it twisted and curved through the jungle. He slept by the side of the road, heedless of bandits. But he had no cause for worry, as he met no one else on the long and empty road.

Upon reaching the city of Creantkor, he paused. The town was walled, like Alzág, but the walls were made of wood. It did not look so much like a fortress, but more like a military outpost. Remembering the recent strife, Sheglock was apprehensive as he rode up. But he was low on supplies, especially food. He had, in his haste, forgotten to pack. He only had the food that had been in the small pack he had grabbed, and it was nearly spent.

It was early morning when he rode up, and the gate was open. He rode through, and found a town much like his own. Merchants filled the streets, yelling and shouting. He groaned, as he had always hated trading.

"Anyone got some food?" he asked a stranger passing by. She shrugged.

"Ask one o' the merchants. They'll swarm ya."

He groaned again – that was what he had dreaded.

"Fresh meat!" yelled a nearby merchant, and Sheglock decided to try him. He hesitantly rode up.

"How much do you want?" he asked.

"Eh?" the merchant said, puzzled, looking at him. "Whatcha got ta offer?"

"How about ten coins and you give me enough meat – some dried and salted, to get to Barad-dûr," he suggested. It seemed a reasonable price.

"We don't use yer coin hereabouts," the merchant explained. "Yer from Barad-dûr, eh? Ya got a lot ta learn bout ole Dorezátz!"

"Is there no way to get food!" Sheglock cried desperately.

"Hunt, I s'pose," he replied unsympathetically. Sheglock gave up and left, annoyed. There had to be someone who would take his money.

He asked several others, and soon realised that money was seldom seen in these parts. In Garkhôn, though people would often barter for convenience, they would always accept money. He stared glumly at his silver coins, each inscribed with the emblem of the Eye. Did they truly have no value out here?

The fifth merchant he asked finally consented to receive money, though his price was outlandishly high. Still, Sheglock chose to pay – it was better than a prolonged stay in the town. He also desired to escape from the merchants as soon as he could, for his sake, and his brother's.

The merchant demanded twenty-five silver coins, and Sheglock paid, though it was half the money he carried with him. Moreover, he charged three more for the salt, which Sheglock needed to preserve the meat. Sheglock walked away feeling cheated and cross.

By noon he left Creantkor, and by dusk he reached the edge of the jungle. The trees thinned, and eventually disappeared altogether, save the occasional twisted shape looming through the mists.

For there were indeed mists. Sheglock had come to the vast plain of Rektànse, just east of the plateau of Gorgoroth. It was a no-man's land, covered continuously in fog, cold, and uninviting. For several days he passed through this desolate and forsaken country. A bitter wind blew from the west, chilling his bones, and he had no way to ward it off. He was very uncomfortable, and his spirits were dampened.

Eventually he saw the dark mountains looming ahead of him. He quickened his pace, arriving at the base of the cliffs. There he camped for the night, and in the morning he started off again. As he climbed, the fog thinned. But the sky was still covered in a thin blanket of clouds, and occasionally it would drop rain; and the showers were brief, but often very sudden and hard. By the next day Sheglock was thoroughly soaked, and rather disheartened.

He stopped by the trolls' cave that night, to take refuge from the rain (which had stated up several hours before and not yet let up) and to see his old friends. They greeted him joyously, and together they sang many songs. Mark even composed a special song for Morrick, and instructed Sheglock to sing it if his brother got well. Sheglock memorised the song, happy to oblige. He was glad to see that the trolls were still doing well.

For him the visit was far too brief. The next day dawned, cloud still, and with a perpetual drizzle. Bob offered Sheglock the chance to stay with them, until the weather cleared. With regret, Sheglock declined, after all, his brother was the main concern right now.

He set off, making slow progress up the slippery cliffs. As he rode he could faintly hear the slow sonorous tunes of Mark's singing. He smiled to himself, despite the rain and cold. It was nice to know that, in the whole of Middle Earth, there were others who enjoyed art, like he did.

As he travelled further upward, the song faded. The only sound was the soft patter of the millions of tiny raindrops on the wet gray stones. Sheglock took in a deep breath, letting the cool air fill his lungs. Merân slowed down, receiving no urging from her rider. Sheglock sighed – it was so peaceful up here, albeit frigid.

Then, as though struck by blinding realisation, he remembered his brother, febrile and shuddering, lying on the ground. He had need of haste! He dug his heels into Merân's side – a little too hard, as she barked in disapproval – and bolted off.

The next day he crossed into Gorgoroth, by his reckoning, as the border between Dorezátz and Gorgoroth was not measured precisely. The landscape was different; more bleak and dull than the vivid green of the jungle he had left behind. Sheglock sighed – this was his homeland, but now it felt drab and uninviting, as though is journey east had opened his eyes. Before, this gray land had been all he had ever known. Now, put in contrast to the verdant intensity of Dorezátz, the colourless terrain of Gorgoroth seemed depressing. With a heavy heart, he rode on.

Several more days passed, and still Sheglock met no one on the road. The rain let up, but otherwise the terrain did not change much. Far off to the west, as a tiny silhouette, he could see Orodruin, red flames flickering near its top. To the left, and seemingly much larger (though, as it was nearer, this was no doubt a trick of his eyes), stood Barad-dûr, his destination. Looking at it, he felt he could see the very might of Sauron. He sped up.

The next day he came to the place where the road branched off south toward Garkhôn. He sighed, looking briefly down it, remembering another time, on another road, when he had stared down at the mighty tower in wonder. Those had been happier times, before the mission to Alzág, and the illness of his brother. He sighed a second time, desiring so strongly to visit his town, but need did not allow him to. And he had forgotten the letter to Ulûrk, anyway. He took one last glance south, then turned his gaze west, to the vast fortress ahead. He whispered softly to his warg, and she shot off, like an arrow, down the road.

In less than a day, he reached the outer gate of the mighty city, Barad-dûr, capital of Mordor, and centre of Sauron's might. The jet black tower loomed ahead of him, taller than aught he had ever seen, except, perhaps, the cliffs at the edge of Gorgoroth. But the tower, unlike the cliffs, was not broken. Tall, straight, and proud it shot up, a beacon to all in the country. It reminded friends of their unwavering allegiance, and warned foes against their folly. This was the might of Sauron, at its fullest, and it seemed that naught but the wrath of the great Sea itself could ever topple it, if indeed even the Sea could.

A guard, dressed in clean armour, gleaming brightly, halted him.

"What business have you at the great Eye? Visitors seldom travel here, only to seek aid, or receive it. Why do you come?"

"To beg for help," Sheglock replied, his voice pleading.

"Know that those who seek aid are less welcomed than those who bring it."

"But I seek it nonetheless!" Sheglock exclaimed. "Sir, as we speak, my brother is dying! I flew here, all the way from Alzág, to beg for the cure!"

"From Alzág, you say?" he said with wonder. "That is no mean feat! You must be weary. But, while your trust in Sauron is commended, those from Dorezátz are not high in His favour."

"We aren't from Dorezátz!" Sheglock corrected him. "We are from Gorgoroth, sent as negotiators to get the payment of a tax from the governor of Alzág."

"Come now!" he replied. "That is a better tale! And do you have the silver on you, perchance?"

"No, they refused. But it was on the journey to Alzág that my brother fell ill."

"Very well. You may have permission to make your case before the great Eye."

"Thank you!" Sheglock cried, immensely relieved. He rode past, into the great city.

There were numerous houses on either side, many well built, of brick and stone. There were dens and stables that housed many wargs, and rows upon rows of barracks for the soldiers. Sheglock marvelled – an entire army could easily be housed here!

He followed the main road, paved smoothly with stones, each one bearing the likeness of the Eye. Sheglock was amazed at the intricate detail, and briefly wondered how long the road had taken to assemble. Here, the strength of Sauron was evident in all things, from the great Tower itself, to the most minute detail.

He came to a bridge, leading up to the tower itself. Another guard stopped him there.

"I received permission to enter at the gate," Sheglock told him. The guard took his word and let him through.

"We shall see soon enough," he replied, to Sheglock's utter incomprehension.

Then, as he travelled down the bridge, the Eye turned onto him, and he understood. He could sense it, a searching, all-seeing force. He felt naked, all his secrets exposed. It looked through him as though his very skin was made of glass, straight into the depths of his heart. It was probing him, weighing his loyalty, judging him. Sheglock bowed his head, feeling the heavy weight of judgment.

At last It seemed satisfied, and deemed him fit to enter. The feeling of being exposed vanished, and Sheglock stumbled, weary, to the gates of Barad-dûr.


	20. Chapter 20

**XX**

**Sheglock**

"Felt it, didn't ya," a guard laughed as Sheglock passed through the main gate.

Sheglock

"Don't ya worry," the guard said. "He found no flaws with ya. And next time, He'll just ignore ya. It's only the first time visitors come that He examines them so closely."

"Good," Sheglock replied. He had not felt at all comfortable under the gaze of the Eye.

"So," the guard asked, "what're ya doing here?"

"I've come to find a cure for my brother's disease."

He stroked his chin thoughtfully for a while. "Ya should go to the ole courtrooms, where a judge'll hear your case, and decide if ya deserve Sauron's aid."

"How do I 'deserve' it?" Sheglock cried in alarm.

"Just prove that Sauron will benefit by giving ya the herbs ya need."

Sheglock sighed, realising just how Morrickesque the whole place was. He would have to make a logical argument, just like he always made against his brother. Funnily enough, it had been Morrick who had taught him to argue rationally. Sheglock noted, though did not appreciate, the irony.

"Wait!" cried the guard, and Sheglock turned, though it seemed the guard had not been speaking to him. Sheglock stared out the gate, following the guard's gaze, and noted a black, cloaked figure riding up on a coal-black horse. Sheglock felt a deep sense of wonder, as he could sense a power far greater than his own. He was overcome by the feeling, and bowed his head, feeling infinitesimally insignificant.

Bells rang from high above, welcoming the newcomer. He rode on, coming to the bridge. As he crossed it, Sheglock knew that the Eye was likely boring holes through him, but, even though his horse cowered in humiliation, he did not quail. He kept his hooded head high, riding swiftly up to the gate.

"Welcome, my lord," the guard greeted him, bowing low. Sheglock followed the guard's example, and bowed to the ground.

"Pleased am I to return to the home of my Master," he said, in a thin voice that sounded somewhat like hissing. "Many long leagues I have stumbled across, as I sought a way home."

"And we are pleased to receive you," the guard replied. Sheglock noted that he deliberately fixed his grammar, to sound more official.

The rider turned his head toward them, and Sheglock started. Beneath his hood there was naught but empty air! He bore no semblance of a body, nor any recognisable form. Sheglock was awed by him, feeling slight apprehension, but at the same time, reverence.

"Where are the others?" the rider asked.

"My lord," the guard replied, "you are the first of the Nazgûl to return home."

"Indeed?" he asked, surprised by the news. "Alas! Those are ill tidings. Then, I deem that no news of our journey is yet known to the people of Mordor."

"You are right, my lord."

"I shall go, then, and report my tale," he said.

"Very well, my lord. May the grace of Sauron be with you always!"

"And likewise, may His light shine on you," the Ringwraith replied, riding off through the tower.

The guard sighed. "Ya know, they always freak me a little. I know they're on our side, but still… Weren't ya afraid?"

"A little," Sheglock replied. "More overpowered than afraid, though."

"I know what ya mean. Well, if ya want to have your case heard, ya best follow the Nazgûl. He's going to the courts too, I'm sure, to tell his tale. Ya got to wait him out, but then ya can make your case."

"Thank you," Sheglock said, then set off, following the route that he had seen the Ringwraith take. The passage wound and turned, but Sheglock stayed on the main corridor, passing numerous other, smaller side ones. He was amazed by the sheer, vast size of his fortress, to him far more like a labyrinth, as he had already lost all sense of direction. Twice he asked for directions, and eventually, after at least fifteen minutes, he arrived at the courtrooms. He opened the door and slipped in.

The Ringwraith had not yet begun speaking, and the officials still were bustling around. They appeared to be setting up the courtroom. The room was circular (Sheglock assumed that it was located in one of the Tower's many spires), with a lowered well in the centre. Two thirds of the outer perimeter was made of rows of benches. But set aside from them was a solitary high pedestal, inscribed with the red Eye of Sauron. Sheglock assumed that this was the judge's platform, and, as it was deserted, he deemed he had time to ask the court's favour.

He stopped a passing official, who appeared to be relatively less busy. "Sir, I beg your pardon, but I have a quick question."

"Out with it," said the guard. His tone was not friendly, but at least it wasn't hostile.

"When can I have my case heard?" Sheglock asked.

"There are two scheduled already," he said. "I can add you after them, but give me a moment first." He left, then came back two minutes later.

"Your name, and the nature of your case, please."

"Sheglock. I desire a cure for my brother's ailment."

"Good. Now hurry to the benches; the first case is about to commence!"

Sheglock thanked him, then hastened to the benches. He eventually found, in the top row, a deserted spot, and he sat down. Just then, the Ringwraith walked into the room, wearing a robe of glorious white, lined with snow-white fur, and with gold trim. A crown was on his hooded head. Sheglock could now certainly see in him the semblance of the great Kings of old.

The judge then walked in, clad in deep royal purple. She took her place at the pedestal, and stood up.

"Silence in the court!" she cried, and instantly all mutterings ceased. "Let our most noble guest, Lord Zul-Därsch, speak."

The Ringwraith then went up and began to speak. "Thank you, most honourable servant of Sauron," he said. "And to all who came to hear my tale. What you are about to hear is not, by traditional terms, strictly a trial. There is no accused, unless I myself stand as he. But let Sauron and His court decide that, after He has heard my tale. And let Him deal out my punishment, if He sees fit. For, as you may have realised, we failed in our Quest to the Shire. We did not manage to reclaim the One Ring."

There was some muttering at this, but the judge held up her hand, and it quickly died away. Sheglock, in spite of his haste, was intrigued.

"Now," the judge commanded, "Let the Eye come forth!"

Two orcs came forward, bearing a bundle of cloth. They laid it on the pedestal, and unwrapped it. Sheglock saw that it contained a stone, perfectly round and smooth. It appeared at first to be black, but Sheglock soon discovered that was not so. As he looked at it, he noticed swirls of many colours; red, purple, and blue. He stared in amazement – for it was clearly of the make of ancient Gondor. What was the craft of the Enemy doing in Barad-dûr?

"Behold the Pupil of the Eye of Sauron!" Zul-Därsch cried. "This is one of the old seeing stones of Ancient Gondor, a Palantír! It once was the Ithil-stone, now it is the stone of Barad-dûr. It seldom is taken from the High Chamber at the summit of the Tower, but at my request it was brought here, so that I may tell my tale to Sauron, as well as His servants, and be spared the necessity of telling it twice.

"Now, I shall endeavour to begin my tale. You all likely know how we (the Nazgûl that is) were sent out to seek 'Shire' and 'Baggins' long ere they were discovered. It was not we who, in the end, found it. But we already were far in the Northwest at the time of discovery. When word came from Barad-dûr that the Shire had been found, we immediately coalesced and headed off to it. It took us less than three days to reach our destination.

"As you likely _do not_ know, especially those who dwell outside the Great City, the announcement of the Shire's discovery was made long after Sauron first learned of its whereabouts. The delay was orchestrated for political purposes, chiefly to prevent Saruman the White from learning of it. The White Wizard has taken a marked interest in _hobbits_ (that is what the Shirelings call themselves) recently. Though he has told Sauron otherwise, it is clear he wishes to claim the one, and usurp the Lord of the Rings.

"For these reasons, Sauron waited until our chase had failed before telling the common folk of Mordor about the Shire. However, we knew long before, and so headed out near the end of September. The guards were weary of us, but let us in, so we shed no blood. They could tell we were not orcs, and from what I could gather, there had been, at that time, many 'unusual' folk travelling through the Shire. We entered one by one, and regrouped outside the main city, Hobbiton.

" 'Go ask around for "Baggins",' the Witch-King (the head of the Nazgûl; he goes by no other name) commanded us. He told us to spread out and split up, to regroup later. We obliged, and I came to the first mound (as the Halflings live in holes) that I saw.

"It was night, so we could see clearly, as in the day the sun obscures our vision. I knocked on the door, and it was opened by an old, fat hobbit. He introduced himself as Ham Gamgee.

" 'What d'you want?' he growled at me. I was somewhat taken aback, and had half a mind to chop of his head, and thereby teach him manners. But I did not, and ignored his insolence.

" 'Baggins,' I replied. 'Where is he?'

" 'Frodo's gone down to Crickhollow; everybody knows that! He even sold Bag End, to none other than the Sackville-Bagginses! It's been an uproar! But if you want him, be off!' With that he slammed the door in my face.

"I rode back to the rendezvous, and found the clearing deserted. I waited, and at the end of night the others returned. We decided to head out the next day, one by one, so as to avoid unwanted suspicion. By inquiring at another hole, and receiving a similar greeting as before, another of the Nine, my comrade Älbaschêr, had learned the way.

"That evening we set out, travelling at fifteen minute intervals. As I travelled down the road I felt a strange pull just off the side. I stopped, wondering if it might be the One. But eventually I ignored it, taking the word of that old fool, Gamgee. Alas! That was my first error, as we knew not that Baggins was aware of our presence. Later we learned that Gandalf the Gray had told him what he bore. I know now that I passed right by It, making a fool of myself in my haste to reach Buckleberry.

"We reached the River Brandywine, or so it was called by the Shirefolk. Beyond it was our destination, but we found no sign of Mr. Baggins. The Witch-King turned to me when we all had met. 'Now, Zul-Därsch,' he said to me, 'it seems your information is false.'

" 'Give me leave, master,' said I, 'and I shall correct it.' He nodded, and I set off.

"I rode back across the Brandywine Bridge, and to the house of a local farmer. 'Good day to you,' he says. 'This lane don't lead anywhere, and wherever you may be going, your quickest way will be back to the road.' One of his dogs came out and barked at me. I laughed.

" 'I come from… yonder,' I said to him, vaguely waving my hand. Then I leaned toward him, lowering my voice to a whisper. 'But have you seen _Baggins_?'

"This seemed to upset him, though why it would, I could not tell. 'Be off,' he yelled at me. 'There are no Bagginses here! You're in the wrong part of the Shire. You had better go back west to Hobbiton – but you can go by road this time.'

"I was growing annoyed, as I knew full well this was a lie. 'Baggins has left,' I told him, in case he truly did not know. 'He is coming. He is not far away. I wish to find him. If he passes, will you tell me? I will come back with gold.'

" 'No you won't,' he replied insolently. 'You'll go back where you belong, double quick. I give you one minute before I call my dogs.'

"I was irked by his attitude, but I laughed it off. I spurred my horse toward him, as punishment for his cheek. Then I bolted off, having gotten nowhere. It seemed as though Baggins had vanished!

"We regrouped and took counsel. Knowing Gandalf, we decided that the wizard would have told Mr. Baggins to avoid the road. It was pointless to wander through the woods, so we decided to wait for him, and lay an ambush. My master supposed that he would travel to Bree, a nearby village, as Gandalf had likely ordered him to leave the Shire.

"Four of us, Nardesch, Ol-Talán, Cherëdorn, and Anæstîr, he ordered to stay behind and search the Shire fully, even to invade if necessary. Then we travelled by the empty road to Bree. The Witch-King concealed himself south of the city, and sent both Älbaschêr and I ahead as scouts. We searched the village, and found no Baggins. We assumed that, if he was in Bree at all, he was in the inn, the Prancing Pony.

"Just then we felt an incredible sensation – a pull – toward the inn. Almost as quickly as it had begun, it vanished. 'Did you feel that?' Älbaschêr asked me.

" 'Yes,' I replied. 'It feels as though Baggins – or someone – dared to use the Ring.'

"Soon after, a Man came to us, ragged and unkempt, and introduced himself as Bill Ferny. He offered to sell us information.

" 'Let's hear it first, and determine if it is of any value,' Älbaschêr suggested.

" 'In the inn just a while ago, a magician put on a, well, _performance_, let's say. He was drunk, dancing on the tables, and singing ridiculous songs. But all of the sudden, he falls. Nothing odd about that. But then we look round for him, and he's nowhere to be found! It's as though he'd vanished!' "

" 'Not bad,' said I. 'If it is true, at any rate. Älbaschêr, hand him some gold.'

"My companion did as I had asked, giving him two gold coins. Sauron had sent us with a great deal of His money, for exactly this purpose. 'Where does he stay?' he asked.

"He goes by Mr. Underhill, and he's in the bottom floor of the Prancing Pony,' Ferny replied.

" 'And,' I added, 'where does he come from?'

" 'He's not from Bree, but the Shire,' was the reply. I was joyous. Certainly, this was our elusive Mr. Baggins, exposed in his own drunkenness and folly!

"That night we called the others, Zellon and Kaq-Làrria, and together we crept into the Prancing Pony, eager to at last take the Ring. Alas, we were too eager, for we did not know that Baggins had again been forewarned of our presence. We hastened to the room that Ferny had described, and, true to his word, we found four beds there. Slowly we crept up, knives out. We each leaned over a bed.

"Then, at a sign from Älbaschêr, we stabbed down onto the four beds. The first blow we followed by many more. Then we pulled back the sheets.

"Alas! We had been foiled! The beds were empty, and we had achieved naught but the destruction of the innkeeper's pillows! Furious, we turned to search the inn, but we heard footsteps outside. We had been discovered. We knew that the four of us could not fight off the entire town, so we fled, scaring the ponies from the stables as we retreated. This last act was done in hope of delaying Baggins, giving us another go at him the next day.

"We returned to the Witch-King, and reported our failure. He was displeased, but we could not yet move. We waited for the others to return.

"Soon they did, and Anæstîr reported failure. 'They all blew their horns, getting the whole town in an uproar. But we invaded the house. Baggins was not there.'

"At this the Witch-King was furious, and ordered us to Weathertop. 'There you can see far, and find many things. Maybe you shall see Baggins.'

"Cherëdorn, Nardesch, and Älbaschêr he sent eastwards, to spy and gather information. Then, with the rest of us, he rode to Weathertop. Ol-Talán, Anæstîr, and Zellon stayed to guard the base of the hill, while Kaq-Làrria, the Witch-King himself, and I went to the top to look. Long we searched, but the road was deserted save one rider, moving swiftly toward us. He rode straight to the hill, and we quailed at his great wrath, for it was noon and our power was weakest. We hid and waited.

"At night we gathered Ol-Talán and Zellon, and encircled him. When we attacked, we found he was none other than Gandalf himself, the one who had foiled all our plans. Furiously we fought, but he held us off until sunrise, when he escaped our net. The Witch-King commanded, through the Nine Rings, the spies, Cherëdorn, Nardesch, and Anæstîr, to follow him. Zellon he commanded to join them.

"Then the five of us, Kaq-Làrria, Ol-Talán, Anæstîr, the Witch-King, and I, waited. Three days after we had fought off Gandalf, they came. A ranger was with them, one of the last remaining Men of Númenor. We cursed our ill fortune. They climbed the hill around noon, and we dared not attack then. We waited until dark.

"We could feel the draw of the Ring, and it was easy for us to find them, camped in a small dell below the hill. They had lit a fire. Slowly, careful this time, we crept toward them.

"They must have sensed our presence, for they grew suddenly defensive. They retreated closer to the fire. We drew our swords and three of the Nazgûl, Anæstîr, Ol-Talán, and the Witch-King, advanced, leaving Kaq-Làrria and I behind with our horses, to prevent Baggins's escape.

"Two of them were overcome by our menace, and collapsed to the ground. The third shrank back behind the last, who we could tell was Baggins. We could feel the presence of the One around him.

"The others we ignored, focusing all our energy on Baggins. _Put on the Ring,_ we commanded. _Come to us._

"He tried to resist us, but the three of them advanced, the Witch-King in centre, Anæstîr and Ol-Talán on either side. All five of us pressed him, and slowly he drew out the Ring. He put It on his finger.

"All at once he came startlingly clear to our eyes. We could tell he was just an ordinary hobbit. There was no hidden force he possessed, save that of the Ring. The Witch-King advanced.

"The ranger had not been idle, and drew out a burning brand. Anæstîr and Ol-Talán turned to fight him. But the Witch-King drew from his belt one of our greatest weapons, the Morgul-blade of Sauron, made by our master Himself. Baggins drew his sword.

" '_O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!_' he cried, and we were angered that he dared to utter these names. He dived forward and slashed at the Witch-King's feet. At the same time my master pierced his shoulder with the fatal knife of Minas Morgul. We fled, cursing our ill fortune, for fate had misdirected the blade of our master. Still, we knew that even a prick with such a weapon was deadly, and that in time the shard would work its way to the halfling's heart. There was no way Baggins could survive such a wound. We would only have to wait, and we knew we could do so. We fled because we had no desire to lose any of our company to this Ranger."

"We travelled onward, eventually coming to the Last Bridge. Kaq-Làrria, Anæstîr, and I the Witch-King commanded to hold the bridge. He and Ol-Talán rode on.

"We stayed there a while, but too soon the elf-lord Glorfindel arrived, and chased us off. However, we were not concerned, for it was beyond his skill to heal the wound. Even Elrond Halfelven would have trouble healing the works of Sauron the Great, yet it was doubtless to his house that Baggins fled.

"For some time Glorfindel pursued us westward, but eventually he turned away. We suspected he had gone with Baggins and the hobbits. We regrouped with Ol-Talán and the Witch-King, and headed back east. We began to again pursue the Ring.

"Right before the Ford of Bruinen we came upon them. 'Fly!' we heard Glorfindel cry. 'Fly! The enemy is upon us!'

"We leapt through the trees, Anæstîr first, followed by me, then the others.

" 'Ride forward,' Glorfindel yelled to Baggins. 'Ride!'

"_No!_ we commanded him. _Come to us!_ We could sense that he was fading. The knife of Sauron was doing its job at last.

"Baggins turned and drew his sword, and the five of us advanced. Glorfindel continued to yell. 'Ride on! Ride on!' he screamed, to no avail.

"Then he spoke to the horse in his own tongue, and alas! The horse was wiser than his rider. He bolted, and we spurred our horses on in pursuit.

"As he rode, four others sprang out at him. We were overjoyed, for it seemed that Zellon, Cherëdorn, Nardesch, and Älbaschêr had waited in ambush. They were gaining on him. The river was drawing closer.

"He made it just across the river, then fell from the horse. The Witch-King stopped just on the other side. Baggins dragged himself upright, and turned toward us.

" 'Go back!' he cried, his voice weak. "Go back to the Land of Mordor, and follow me no more!' We laughed, for his words were empty, and he knew it.

" 'Come back!' Älbaschêr cried, and we all took up the call. 'To Mordor we will take you!' added Kaq-Làrria.

" 'Go back,' he whispered in a faint voice. He was losing consciousness.

" 'The Ring,' Cherëdorn cried. 'Give us the Ring!'

"The Witch-King laughed and started across the ford, the rest of us following him. He raised his hand, and Baggins's sword shattered. He advanced slowly toward the shore.

" 'By Elbereth and Lúthien the Fair,' cried Baggins, 'you shall have neither the Ring nor me!' We laughed at him, and his vain words, and watched as our master drew nigh to end his pitiful existence, and reclaim what was rightfully ours.

"But, by some ancient magic, the river rose in wrath. It came upon us suddenly and without warning, and the Witch-King was swept away. We could see amidst the tumultuous waters the likenesses of great boulders and white horses. With a cry we retreated, but we lost Älbaschêr, Zellon, Nardesch, and Ol-Talán!

"We hesitated on the opposite shore, waiting for the flood to subside. But then the Ranger came upon us, and Glorfindel in wrath. Our horses were overcome by madness, and we were too feeble to resist, dismayed by the fall of our leader. They carried us into the raging waters.

"Long was I thrown about, and I could not measure the time in days nor hours. I lay where the river left me, weary, naked, and horseless. The others I could neither hear nor sense, so I lay there, alone and forsaken.

"At last I found strength to move, and I rose. I slowly made my way east, clambering and toiling over the rough terrain, following the Misty Mountains south. In a month or so I finally reached the land of Rohan.

"There I stole a cloak, and a black horse. I rode him with great speed to Minas Morgul, where I expected to find the others. When I found no one, I went on to Barad-dûr, and so I came here before you. And now that my tale is told; let it be judged."

He finished speaking, and knelt down before the Palantír, which glowed with a yellow light. The judge rose.

"Thank you, most honourable Lord Zul-Därsch, for your confession," she said. "Now I myself, speaking on behalf of He to which we all are bound, deem that no punishment shall be dealt out to you. You tried all you could, and ill fortune alone foiled you. Even the best laid plans are subject to fate, and to chance."

The Palantír glowed with what Sheglock supposed was agreement, and the judge banged her gavel. "Case dismissed!"

"Thank you," Zul-Därsch said, bowing toward the judge (though Sheglock assumed he must have been bowing to the Palantír). He then turned toward them and walked out the door, and several spectators gasped, as there was no visible head beneath his white robes. Sheglock watched him go, then turned his attention to the pedestal, where the judge was setting up the next case. Several attendants wrapped the Palantír in cloth again and reverently carried it away. Almost all of the spectators got up and left, the Ringwraith's tale the only thing they had come to hear.

She banged the gavel again once the courtroom had practically emptied. "The second case today is a murder trial, where the victim, the ex-wife of the defendant, was killed unjustly by the sword. Or so claims the father of the victim. Let us hear what the accused has to say for himself."

A middle-aged orc stepped down to the well. "Greetings, your honour. I stand accused of murder, and I freely admit to it. Yes, I did kill my ex-wife Aríl. But I beg Sauron to see the justness of my deed, and pardon it."

"I am Algok, a citizen of the province of Erranór, south of here. I first met Aríl in a bar, and immediately felt a connexion to her. I proposed, and she accepted."

"We wedded that year, and for a month or so got along well. But she always seemed reluctant to – ah – go to bed. Why this would be, I could not fathom."

"She took me aside soon after that, and tentatively asked me if we could just stay friends. 'I love you,' she told me, 'but not in that way.' "

"Then Arnyë came into our life, and upset things from the beginning. She became my wife's close friend, and Aríl would head often to her house, sometimes even overnight. I grew increasingly angry with her, and forbade her to visit Arnyë. Aríl refuse, and promptly divorced me."

"I would have let the issue drop, but for the next event. I heard that my wife had re-married. And to whom? None other than Arnyë, her best 'friend' in the world. I was furious!"

"That night I snuck into their house, and saw the two of them in bed, together. I was overcome by rage and jealousy. I took out my sword and stabbed Aríl, and Arnyë I left unconscious. But I made sure the damn 'Men' paid for their sin!"

"I would ask you please not to swear in the courtroom!" the judge cried. "Is that your full tale, Algok?"

"Yes, your honour," he said, glaring across the room at the prosecution.

"Then let the victim's father, Lækor, give testimony."

An old orc rose and slowly hobbled down. He glanced at Algok with loathing.

"Greetings, your honour. I am Lækor, father of Aríl. I come here, to Barad-dûr and the Court of Sauron, all the way from Erranór, to make sure justice is done unto this murderer!" He gestured toward Algok as he said this.

"From a young age my daughter Aríl realised she was different. At age twenty all her friends went off and found husbands, but she could find none. 'Boys just don't interest me,' she told me."

"I told her this was fine, as Sauron cares not who you wed, as long as you give to Him and the country. She told me he would be willing to work, and the issue was settled."

"But then she met this rascal—" he pointed accusingly at Algok, "—at the Morgul Fang, a local pub. She told me how nice he was, as a friend. Later he came to me and asked for her hand in marriage. I asked her, and she agreed, so they wedded."

"But he desired to bed her, and she was not comfortable with that. She had only wanted to be friends, and thought of their marriage as simply a vow of friendship. Soon the tension mounted."

"She also met Arnyë, a most charming young orc, who she fell in love with. I advised her to divorce, but she did not. 'I am friends with my husband, and lovers with my friend,' she told me. She seemed not to have a problem with that."

"Eventually Algok refused to let her visit Arnyë. She then took my counsel and divorced. Soon after, she wedded Arnyë, and I was delighted for her. But I know she wanted to keep Algok in her life, just as a friend. However, that was not his intention, jealous as he was. He was never her friend – he has murdered her, and for that I can not forgive him!"

"Is that your tale, Lækor?" the judge asked.

"It is," he replied, glaring back at Algok with loathing matched only by that in his gaze.

"Then we have one final witness," she said, "the victim's wife, Arnyë. Ms. Arnyë, please come forward."

A young orc stepped down to the centre. She looked sad and glanced furiously at Algok, before addressing the judge.

"Good afternoon, your honour. I am Arnyë, wife of the late Aríl. For all my life I have been made fun of because of who I am. 'Arnyë,' they call me, 'the Man-girl.' All of you know there are few insults worse than this. I have an interest in other women; that I will admit freely. But Sauron allows no prejudice against homosexuals, and such is _no excuse_ for blatant murder!"

"When I met Aríl, I finally found someone who felt the same as I did. She really loved me, and I her. I felt as though we were truly destined to be together. She began coming frequently to my house. Soon after, she divorced her husband and married me."

"Her ex, Algok, was jealous. I know full well why he committed this horrendous deed. Because we're different. Because we like girls instead of guys! See how he glares at me, when I should instead be glaring at him! What have I one to wrong him? His ex-wife never loved him, that we both know! So why should he grudge her because she found me? There is no law in Erranór nor all of Mordor prohibiting same sex marriage. That is because, to Sauron the Great, it matters not! I can be just as productive as the heterosexual woman next door!"

"But Algok doesn't see it that way. He is a homophobe. He fears us because we are different. And by those means he tries to justify his actions! I beseech you, ignore his plea and convict him of murder, like he deserves!"

She finished, speaking the last half with passion. Finally she sighed and returned her gaze to the judge.

"Is that all," the judge asked. Arnyë nodded.

"Well, I see this as a fairly straightforward case," the judge said. "Arnyë is right when she says that Sauron has no bias. Yes, I understand that Aríl may have cheated on you. But that is no just cause for murder! Nor does it seem to be the main issue. Your personal homophobia, Algok, is no excuse."

Algok glared furiously at Lækor and Arnyë.

"My verdict," the judge continued, "is that the accused, Algok, is guilty of unjustified murder, and shall be hung in consequence." She banged the gavel.

Algok swore viciously at Arnyë, calling her a whole host of offensive names, "Man-girl" by no means the worst of them. He was promptly escorted from the room. Lækor followed, and Arnyë left last. Before she left, she turned to the spectators and just shrugged, as if to say _see what I mean?_ Then she followed her deceased wife's father out of the room.

After a brief recess, the attendants began to set up the next case. Several other orcs left, but a few more entered. When everyone was settled, the judge stood up.

"Silence!" she commanded, and instantly there was silence. "We are here this afternoon to hear a plea for aid. The orc Sheglock desires a cure for his brother, who has fallen ill. All the way from Dorezátz he has ridden. But now we ask ourselves, should Sauron give it to him? Let's hear his story, then decide. Sheglock, please come forward."

Sheglock was caught off his guard. He had forgotten that he was next. Nervously he got up and went down to the well.

"Good afternoon, your honour," he said, imitating the others.

"Good afternoon," the judge replied. "First, tell us how your brother fell ill."

"Well," began Sheglock, "I am actually a citizen of Gorgoroth. A military official, Captain Khentz, sent several orcs, myself included to Alzág in an attempt to get the payment of a tax. While travelling there, we found the city of Creantkor blocked by some sort of riot. Our leader decided to head through the jungle, rather than take the long road south. It was in this jungle that Morrick became ill."

"We made it to Alzág, then found a very kind old orc named Kâlask, an ex-soldier. He took Morrick in, and we waited. However, my brother's condition worsened. Eventually, I grew anxious to do something – I was watching him die! I rode off for Barad-dûr, to seek aid. Will you give it? Is this world so unkind to deny a caring orc treatment for his brother? I beg of you – _implore_, if beg isn't enough, help me!"

"Stay your passion," the judge cried. Sheglock had gotten very passionate indeed as he spoke these last words. At "help me!" he had even fallen to his knees. He got back up and stared at the judge.

"It was not Arnyë's passion, but her logic, that won me to her side last case. Bottle up the pathos, if you would please. Sauron's court is built on logic. Barad-dûr draws its strength from logic. If something does not help Sauron, then it follows He would not do it. Come, tell us why your brother would aid Sauron, enough to compensate for the price of the herbs and the toil in brewing his cure."

"Well, first he is a smith," Sheglock said. Morrick had taught him how to argue dispassionately. Now he would do so, while Morrick's like lay at stake. Sheglock sighed inwardly and continued. "He has just taken the place of our friend Ulûrk at the forge. I daresay Sauron needs his smiths. The wars are coming, and someone needs to produce armour, swords, and shields. So, Sauron should cure Morrick, as it is less costly than training another smith to take his place."

"Not bad," the judge said. She seemed surprised that he had managed. "But what good would a smith be to Sauron, if he lives in Dorezátz?"

"When Morrick heals, we'll travel back up here," Sheglock explained.

"But we need our smiths in the Great City itself. Do you plan to return to Barad-dûr?"

"Not really," he slowly answered, then quickly added "though I can if you want."

"Then I will decree my verdict: take or leave it. We will gather the necessary herbs and brew a cure for you, when you describe clearly your brother's ailment. But – when he has healed – you are to send him here, to Barad-dûr. Here let him prove himself to the Great Eye. Do you accept this offer?"

"_Yes!_" Sheglock cried. "I will do anything, just to keep him alive!"

"Then report to the apothecary, with this note. Tell the orc there, in detail, of your brother's condition. Then, when he heals, return here, where you will live until the war is over." She handed him a note that she had just written.

Sheglock thanked her, then left, almost skipping, so great was his relief. He ran down the corridor some way before realising that he had no idea where the apothecary even was. He stopped a nice-looking orc and asked.

"There's a coupla them – closest'd be righ' on th'other side o' this 'ere 'all," he replied, pointing. Sheglock thanked him and ran off.

He came to the room, and hesitantly entered. Many herbs and elixirs were scattered amongst the numerous shelves. Sheglock marvelled at the large number of phials and test tubes lining the walls. There was a large brass cauldron suspended over a roaring fire. The room felt very hot and stuffy.

"Can I help you?" an orc asked, stepping out from the shadows. Sheglock started – she looked almost like some sort of sorceror. Had she begun muttering incantations, Sheglock would have turned and bolted. But his brother needed the cure.

Sheglock described his plight, including a description of the disease. He produced the paper that the judge had given him.

"I see…" she said slowly, turning it over. She flicked it casually into the fire, causing Sheglock to jump. She ignored him, selecting three phials from the shelves. These she emptied them into the cauldron that was set on the flames. She muttered to herself in what seemed like an incantation. Despite the warmth of the room, Sheglock shivered.

"Done," she said, bonding over to the counter and giving him as glass phial. The liquid inside was milky white. "See that he drinks this every single drop. Then wait a few days. It's not instant, but it's pretty effective nonetheless."

Sheglock thanked her and left as hurriedly as politeness allowed.

He ran down to the front gate, where he found a large crowd gathered. "What's this?" he asked the nearest orc.

"Lord Zul-Därsch is receiving his gift from Sauron. Look!"

Sheglock peered over his shoulder. Zul-Därsch, now in robes of dark black, was walking toward one of the strangest creatures Sheglock had ever seen. Like a great bat it was, but not so. It was all black in colour, and had many sharp teeth. Its two great wings were of enormous size. Its claws were sharp and lethal, and venom dripped from its fangs.

Sheglock became aware that another orc was speaking to the Ringwraith. He strained to hear what they were saying.

"This is Malkharor, the Fell Beast of Sauron. Swiftly shall he bear you many leagues, my lord. He shall aid you greatly in your pursuit of the Ring, and in the wars. Take him, my lord!"

Fearlessly Zul-Därsch strode up to the great beast. He grabbed the reins and mounted him. The creature growled, but Sheglock thought it was a happy sort of growl.

Then the Ringwraith yelled, and the beast lifted off. Swiftly it soared into the air, and all the onlookers craned their necks to follow his progress. Thrice he encircled the great Tower, Barad-dûr. Then, with a great cry of "Long live Sauron," he sped off to the West.

"Long live Sauron," the crowd cried out in reply.


	21. Chapter 21

**XXI**

**Kâlask**

Kâlask watched Burk and Largg ride off, and saw Firri's disappointment. She seemed to be feeling deserted. And he could understand why. All her friends had either left or fallen into a coma. He noticed how, over the days following the soldiers' departure, she grew steadily more depressed. She began to spend more and more time shut up with Morrick, and rarely interacted with her host. The only things she said to him were simply robotic, _please_, _thank you_, _good morning_, _good night_, and the like. Kâlask soon became very worried about her health. She had even stopped having meals in his dining room, preferring to eat with Morrick.

He vowed to himself to make the experience as pleasant as possible. He thought it was his duty to keep her from falling fully into depression, before Sheglock returned from Barad-dûr. He remembered how ruinous depression could be – he recalled his friend from the army, Ferkan, who had given up hope after a particularly bad defeat at Osgiliath, back – could it be fifty! – years ago. Ferkan had lost the will to live, and the next time they had marched to battle, he had been easily dispatched by the enemy. Ironically, that battle secured Sauron's hold over Osgiliath, and had Ferkan kept hope, he would have survived to a ripe old age. Kâlask much desired to keep Firri alive, for Morrick's sake, as well as hers.

He pulled her aside one time before supper, a week or so past the departure of Burk and Largg. She had grabbed a meagre portion of dried cow-flesh, and was certainly planning to head to Morrick's room with it.

"Come now," Kâlask said kindly. "Do you care to take more?"

"I'm not hungry," Firri replied abruptly, looking at the ground, not him. Her response was robotic and somehow felt insincere. Kâlask, however, excused her rudeness, as he fully understood her condition. Her answer, however, he also ignored.

"Why don't you sup at the table?" he asked gently. Firmly but gently he guided her to a chair. Surprisingly, she did not resist. Kâlask was most unnerved by this, remembering how strong her will once had been. In his mind, she was more sickly than Morrick. The determination she had once possessed, the gumption, all of it was gone. She was more or less a zombie, not really thinking for herself. Kâlask was displeased with himself. He felt that he should have noticed the onset of depression earlier, and helped her then. Now, it seemed she was too far gone.

"Winter is almost gone, and spring approaches on all sides," Kâlask began. "You should see the flowers of Alzág. Numerous as the stars they are, growing in every nook and cranny. And of every hue the mind can imagine, and more beside. Vivid purples and violets, warm reds and oranges, deep blues. Just outside the door you will find all the colours of the rainbow! To one from Gorgoroth, it must be exceptionally beautiful…"

Kâlask paused. Firri, so far, had said nothing. In fact, she wasn't even looking at him. She was staring toward Morrick's room, leaving her plate untouched. Kâlask sighed.

"I want to talk with you, but you've become so close. I feel as though I speak to the deaf stones, or the silent trees. Speak to me!"

To his surprise, she actually began to speak. "I do want to talk to you… you've done me a great service. And I haven't paid you. Just tell me how much, give me a sum, and I will pay double."

Kâlask sighed again, in frustration, for his brief glimer of hope had flickered away once she mentioned her supposed debt. At least she was interacting with him – that was a start. But he was loath to get on the topic of payment. "As I've told you before, I will accept naught until Morrick heals. I will not take your money if I fail in my job, which is to help your friend. But come, let us talk of more pleasant matters. Shall I read you a poem?"

He got up and crossed over to a bookshelf, selecting one of the numerous volumes. He wasn't sure whether Firri liked poetry, but he decided to try. Maybe, at least, it would distract her from Morrick's illness. He returned to the table, flipping through the large tome. At length he selected a passage.

"Let me read you this; a poem of the Last Battle fought in Mordor, between Sauron and Gondor, when the Elves came to the aid of the Men, and Isildur cut the Ring from the hand of Sauron. Many great deeds there were, and valiant ones, but it is a sad tale. For, as you know, Mordor was defeated and Sauron cast into exile. But I shall begin, with your leave."

"Go on, if you want," Firri said. Kâlask took that as a "yes" and began reciting from the book.

_From Númenor great kings arose,_

_Tall and proud, with shields of gold._

_And with the elves alliance made_

_Back in the Elder Days of old._

-

_They marched forward, unstoppable,_

_And reached the Gate at Morranon._

_Then Sauron cast his mighty stroke_

_And the hosts of Mordor marched on._

_-_

_Outside they met at Dagorlad,_

_And there a mighty ba'le ensued._

_The orcs were strong and proud and brave_

_And fought the Men, bloodlust renewed._

_-_

_But they were also strong, and fierce,_

_And cunning too, as well as cruel._

_They broke on through; those evil Men_

_Desired over us to rule._

_-_

_To Orodruin they marched on high,_

_The silver tree on banners bore;_

_But the red Eye would have them not–_

_Armies issued from Sauron's door._

_-_

_All the might of Mordor came_

_Against these mighty Kings of Men,_

_But Elendil they could not withstand,_

_Nor Gil-galad, his Elven friend._

_-_

_Then Sauron came, and hope returned,_

_And He with mighty strokes hewed them._

_The Men in terror fled His great wrath;_

_Their courage now was growing dim._

_-_

_But Elendil still had the heart_

_To challenge Him, Sauron the Great._

_He took up sword, and faced the Ring_

_And there was shaped our country's fate._

_-_

_Narsil gleamed with a silver light_

_But Sauron's ring was wrought of gold._

_The red Eye broke the Silver Tree–_

_Elendil fell, the Man so bold._

_-_

_Then Mordor dared at last to hope,_

_And Narsil, shattered, lay destroyed._

_The King of Men at last vanquished,_

_The foes of Gondor overjoyed!_

_-_

_Brought Gil-galad the Elven-King_

_His spear Aiglos to Orodruin._

_He sought vengeance for his friend's death_

_Yet hope he lacked, seeing the ruin._

_-_

_Sauron came forth, and struck him down;_

_His mighty spear shattered in two._

_Fire leapt high from Orodruin,_

_And Mordor laughed, with hope anew._

_-_

_Too hastily did we rejoice!_

_Alas, Isildur, son of Kings_

_Crept up and took his father's sword;_

_With broken blade challenged the Rings_

_-_

_And Sauron laughed, this Man so bold,_

_How could he ever fight the One?_

_The ring shone red, the Eye arose,_

_And Isildur, he stood alone_

_-_

_Upward came Narsil's broken shards,_

_Aimed at His hand, where dwelt His Crown._

_The Ring flew high! All Mordor quailed!_

_Our master, King, now overthrown!_

_-_

_Then the orcs ran, in fear and shame,_

_And Isildur went to Mount Doom._

_Elrond then cried "Destroy the Ring!"_

_And Mordor waited for its doom._

_-_

_But Sauron lived still through the Ring,_

_And with Isildur long He strove,_

_Until at last by will He won;_

_The King added It to his trove._

_-_

_And so someday it still may be_

_That Sauron may yet rise again,_

_And Mordor now awaits the day_

_When over all the land He'll reign._

Kâlask closed the book, sighing. Vividly in his mind's eye he could picture the battle. It was only the Strength of Sauron that saved Him, for if Isildur had destroyed the Ring… He sighed again, focusing on Firri, who was staring blankly at him. He didn't know whether she had even listened to him.

"What do you think of it," Kâlask asked her. She stared a long while before answering.

"I'm not really into poetry," was all she said. Kâlask sighed, beginning to lose hope.

"Well, of what do you desire to speak?" he asked. "We can talk about Mor rick, if you want. I think it will help you, perhaps very much. You have not been yourself lately. I am a friend – tell me what worries you."

"I am worried about him. I'm worried that he won't…"

"Yes," Kâlask agree, "you're worried that he'll die. We all are. But soon Sheglock will return from Barad-dûr, with the cure, or without it. You can do nothing about it now. So don't worry overly about it!"

"It's just that I feel…" she began, fading off into silence. Kâlask decided to prompt her, though he felt uncomfortably like a psychologist.

"What do you feel? Responsible for his illness? Or are you romantically attracted to him? Don't worry, I will not judge you – such is not my intention. I desire only to help you."

"Both," Firri answered slowly. "When we first met, I instantly admired him, even though we were always fighting over who should lead. But then he took me aside, and gave me sort of a wake-up call, you could say. He taught me a lot about responsibility. Then he gave me the chance to make a decision, and I went against his advice. I remember, he even said 'If I die, it's all your fault!' So this is to be my punishment, I suppose. Just when I find how much I like him, I shall lose him!"

"Don't speak that way!" Kâlask cried. He was beginning to understand her better. "Nor should you think that he does not love you, or fell ill to punish you. I think he loves you dearly, and only put you in such a precarious situation because he believed it was the only way to help you. I think he knows how much you care, as you never leave his bed, unless forced to. Don't despair!"

"Perhaps not. You know, if he recovers, I will propose to him. Though, likely he'd refuse."

"Say, rather, '_when_ he recovers, I will _marry_ him.' Optimism has never hurt anyone."

"You say that, yet _you_ refuse to accept payment until he heals!" she retorted.

Kâlask laughed. She had caught him, for sure. But he was also laughing in relief. Already she was much more like her former self.

"I do not intend to accept payment from you, at any time, under any outcome. So drop the subject and be merry. Shall I pour you some wine with dinner – I see you have not yet eaten a single bite. Come now, that won't do at all!"

"I can't. Not while Morrick lies there, near death!" She pointed in the direction of his room.

"Do you truly believe he would want you to be unhappy?" Kâlask asked, pouring two glasses of wine. "Were you sick in his stead, what would you rather – that he mourn tirelessly, or that he be merry?"

"I guess I see your point," she said, reluctantly taking the wine.

"That's right," Kâlask said. "We'll just wait for Sheglock. Until then, be cheerful. And when Morrick recovers, we'll throw an enormous party, just the four of us!"

Over the next few days Firri seemed to take Kâlask's advice to heart, and returned to her usual self. Kâlask found her more often out and about, and less in Morrick's room. She dropped the subject of payment altogether, for which he was grateful. Instead, she would talk to him of many different things – old battles, or about Dorezátz, or about his past. He also learned much from her – Firri had been raised in Erranór to the south, near Minas Morgul, and one of her uncles had died in the war with Osgiliath. He could sympathise with her on this account, having also lost numerous friends in battle.

A week had passed since Kâlask had taken Firri aside at supper, when Kâlask spotted a figure riding up rapidly toward his house. He called to Firri, who was in Morrick's room. "It's Sheglock!" For he could now recognise the face. Firri ran out into the hall, joyous.

Less than a minute later, they heard him enter and leave the stable. Moments later, a knock came on the door. Kâlask opened it, and Sheglock stood there, a worried look on his face.

"You're back!" Firri cried, moving forward to embrace him. But Sheglock walked right past her.

"We'll celebrate after we get this to my brother!" he cried urgently, shaking a small phial of white liquid. He hurried over to Morrick's bed, Kâlask and Firri following behind. Sheglock leaned over his brother.

"Morrick, can you hear me?" he asked. Morrick turned and groaned, but did not open his eyes. Grimacing, Sheglock forced the flask between his teeth. Instinctively, Morrick swallowed the concoction.

"Now we wait," Sheglock said, sighing. "Nice to see you guys," he added, embracing everyone.

That night they all dined together, and Sheglock describe his journey to Barad-dûr. He explained that they would have to travel back there. "I gave my word," he said.

Kâlask was disappointed. He had hoped to get to know Morrick better, but it did not seem like there would be time. "Well, this is ill news to me, but if it is the will of Sauron, so be it," he said.

Sheglock nodded. "I don't really want to leave either, but it was the only way."

"I understand," Kâlask said. "But let us get to bed. Who knows the tidings the morning may bring." With that he rose, cleared the table, and the three of them went to bed.

The next day was not too different from the last. Morrick continued to sleep, and did not seem, to change much, though his fever did lessen somewhat by the afternoon. It was with a heavy heart that they went to bed that night. The cure seemed to be entirely ineffective.

But the next day Firri woke everyone early with as loud cry. "He's awake!"

"Hush," Morrick's voice said from his room. "They don't need to be able to hear you from Barad-dûr. Speaking of that, is Sheglock going soon?"

Kâlask and Sheglock got up and rushed to the room (though Sheglock, in his youth, made it much faster).

"It's great to see you, bro!" Sheglock yelled, hugging him.

"_Oof,_" grunted Morrick. "Not so hard! I feel much better, though I still feel weak. But you all act like I've been gone so long!"

"You have," Kâlask responded. "Your brother has journeyed to Barad-dûr and back, and found you a cure."

"But that would have taken weeks!" Morrick cried in disbelief.

"It did," Firri replied. "And they were long and weary weeks. But now you're healed, and we can celebrate!"

"Give me another day or two," said Morrick, "and I'll gladly join you. Every minute I feel better than the one before!"

"Right," Firri said. "Tomorrow, then we'll celebrate your recovery, and Sheglock, who made it possible."

"And Sauron!" Morrick added. "Don't forget that it is only by His mercy that I live. I am forever in His debt!"

"A toast," cried Sheglock. "Kâlask, grab some wine , if you could!"

Kâlask obliged and hurried to the pantry. He selected one of the finest wines, and four glasses. Then he quickly returned to Morrick's room. He gave everyone a glass, and poured it.

"To Sauron!" Morrick cried, raising his glass. "To the Great Eye!"

Firri, Sheglock, and Kâlask all raised the glasses along with his.

"To Sauron," they all repeated.

Sheglock turned to Morrick. "Glad you're back," he said.


	22. Chapter 22

**Book the Second**

**The Wars With Gondor**

**-**

**XXII**

**Zul-Därsch**

Night fell on Mordor. From the high pinnacle of the Great Tower, Barad-dûr, Zul-Därsch looked across all of Sauron's realm. As the shadows lengthened and the sun slowly slipped over the Ephel Dúath, the haze covering the world retreated. The Ringwraith scanned the country, able to see clearly, the Sun at last hidden behind the mountains. He saw, amidst all the tiny orcs wandering through the City, a solitary rider, galloping from afar.

Hope arose again in him. Could this be another of his comrades? Quickly he left the observatory, crossing through the labyrinthine corridors he knew so well, and coming at last to the stables of Sauron.

He found Malkharor, his steed, who he had been given as a gift from Sauron Himself. He mounted the beast, and headed out to the gate to meet the newcomer.

Bells again sounded from the Tower, and Zul-Därsch was gladdened by their sound. The clamouring bells verified his assumption, that the rider he had seen was indeed another of the Nazgûl.

He walked Malkharor up to the bridge as the other Ringwraith approached. Zul-Därsch instantly recognised him, for he could see his comrade clearly, though he knew that they were invisible to others. It was Anæstîr, riding up on a sleek grey horse, in a tattered robe of black.

"Friend, welcome home!" Zul-Därsch cried, dismounting Malkharor and striding forward to meet him. Anæstîr hopped off his horse and led him over to Zul-Därsch.

"And, believe me, I am pleased to return," he said, exhausted.

"What delayed you so long?" Zul-Därsch asked.

"Hopelessness and despair. You know how close we were to It! Baggins was just on the other side of the Bruinen. By the time our Chieftain fell, he was within yards of It. Coming so close, only to be foiled by the spells of wizards, and Elves!

Then at length I ventured south, coming at last to Rohan, where I stole my horse, and galloped here."

"And they had no pure black ones?" Zul-Därsch joked. "Grey does not suit you, friend."

Anæstîr frowned. "It is no laughing matter. By the time I had reached Rohan, my loyalty was failing. I was hardly selective. I took the first horse I could find, and rushed here." His horse whinnied, as if to argue that he was as good as a black one.

"Well, you can leave him now," Zul-Därsch said. "Sauron has granted us far greater steeds, akin to my Malkharor standing over by yon gate." He pointed toward his great steed, who was waiting patiently by the gate.

"I had not noticed him before!" Anæstîr cried. "And I admit, I've never seen aught like him. How swiftly can he fly?"

"He could bear you to Rivendell in twelve hours, or less," answered Zul-Därsch. "Or so it is with Malkharor. But, as I was first home, I was given the swiftest steed."

"And who else of our Order has returned so far?"

"None save I," Zul-Därsch answered. "But let us hope they will come soon. Meanwhile, let us bring you into the Tower, where you may receive a proper greeting."

They travelled into the tower, and the Eye focused on them as they approached. But they did not quail, for all their secrets were known already to Sauron. At last He was pleased, and the Eye lifted, as the two Ringwraiths walked into the great fortress.

Anæstîr was given a Fell Beast of his own, the second-swiftest of the lot. Arakore was his name, and Anæstîr seemed pleased with him. "I would bet he is swifter than yours," he said to Zul-Därsch, "but to prove that, we should have to race them one day."

"When Sauron again has the Ring, we may race night and day," he answered. "And Malkharor shall win every time. But due to our own folly, that time is delayed. The Ring has escaped us. Come, we are to take counsel in the High Tower, with Sauron's Mouth."

"Then we should hurry!" cried Anæstîr in alarm. "The High Tower is not close!"

Quickly they travelled through the enormous Tower of Barad-dûr. They climbed higher and higher, following many winding stairs and long corridors. Such was the vast size of Sauron's stronghold that it took them just beyond half an hour to reach their destination.

Anæstîr knocked once on the door. It was opened by none less than Sauron's great messenger and spokesman, who went by no name. He was revered and well respected across Mordor (by those who knew of his existence) and frequently presided over the meetings of the Nazgûl, especially in the absence of their usual Chieftain.

"I bid thee welcome, Lord Anæstîr," he said, bowing slightly. "And to thee, Lord Zul-Därsch, I send my greeting also. Thou hast come at last, and thy aid is required of the Great Eye."

"I am ever willing to be of service to Him for whom you speak," Anæstîr vowed.

"Art thou? I tell thee, He is glad to hear so. But thou hast no need to stand there, looking to be in such discomfort as thou art! Come, takest thou a chair, and thy companion too. This is not meant to be a lecture, but a meeting, where you two shall be counselled."

They entered the room, which was small and circular, with ten empty chairs, set around a central pedestal, on which rested the Palantír. As Zul-Därsch entered, he bowed to it, and Anæstîr did likewise. The two took chairs opposite each other, and the Mouth of Sauron took one between.

"Now, thou comest in a time of urgent need, Lord Anæstîr. As thou knowest, the Ring hath escaped to Rivendell, and there hath come to Elrond Halfelven. But in Imladris it did not remain. Sauron the Great had his eye in that direction for a long time, and so it was that He saw, nigh on a month ago, a company of Nine set out from Elrond's House. Two Men were there, one of them Boromir, son of the Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor. An Elf there was, and a Dwarf. Four Halflings travelled with them also. And the ninth member was none other than Mithrandir himself, known to the North as Gandalf. Sauron hath no doubt that they bear the Ring, and, because of the presence of Captain Boromir, He suspects they are headed to Minas Tirith. You must stop them! If, as they call It, Isildur's Bane returns to the Tower of Guard, it will rekindle hope in Gondor. You mustn't suffer this to happen!"

"No," Zul-Därsch agreed. "We must scout out the area around the White City."

"Thou mayst search there, if thou wouldst like," the Mouth of Sauron agreed. "Very well, Lord Zul-Därsch, that region is thine. But as for thou, Lord Anæstîr, I beseech thee to investigate about the great River Anduin. The Eye hath seen much along the river's shores, and is uneasy. But Sauron hath not the time to investigate His hunches. The Eye is focused ceaselessly upon Minas Tirith. Sauron waiteth in dread for Denethor, or another mightier than he, to come wielding the Ring. While He doth so, it is thy duty to prevent such, and thine too, Zul-Därsch. Now, make ye haste, and report back to me if either of you find aught of interest. But keep East of the river for now, until Sauron is ready."

"I hear and obey, great Mouth of Sauron," both Ringwraiths answered, getting up and bowing. They bowed again to the Palantír, then exited the room.

"Well, I spoke too late," Anæstîr said as they walked back down to the stables. "You have the more promising mission. I doubt that the company will travel by river. Where would they get the boats?"

"I agree. But you came second, and I first. So I would not complain, were I you."

They arrived at the stables (after as tedious half-hour walk through the mighty fortress of Barad-dûr) and mounted their beasts.

As he soared away from the great Tower, Zul-Därsch was again amazed at the marvellous beast of Sauron. Malkharor's wing-beats were as silent as the black night around. His flight was strong and swift, and he did not seem to tire. Zul-Därsch urged him forward, toward Gondor and the realm he was to search. More swiftly than an arrow he shot off toward the West.

Before long he saw ahead of him the great city, Minas Tirith, the only tower that dared challenge the might of Barad-dûr (save perhaps Orthanc, where dwelt the fool Saruman). Zul-Därsch sighed and pulled on the reins, and Malkharor swooped downward. But the White Tower was not his destination. Tonight, he would search Osgiliath, and the southern reaches of the Anduin. He strained his eyes, seeing through the shadows of the night. Then he shut them, and listened. He heard nothing but the steady roar of the wind.

He swooped lower, passing Minas Morgul, and beheld a great host of Men marching north. Dark was their skin, and they bore great robes. They quailed as he passed over them, but Zul-Därsch did not heed them. These were friends, fierce Men of Harad, from the far South, coming to aid Sauron in His need.

Then he scanned Anduin itself, finding no one. He listened and heard naught. All the land was as silent as a grave.

Over Ithilien he flew, but found no wanderers save the occasional roving orc. Some of these were spies of Sauron, in league with Him, but others were simply bandits. Zul-Därsch did not care overly at the moment. His concern was with the Ring, and of it he found no signs.

He turned Malkharor back north, ready to report back his lack of news, when suddenly he felt a pull. He could sense that one of his comrades was in danger. It was Anæstîr, using the power of the Nine Rings to communicate.

_Help me! Fly as swiftly as you can to the Brown Lands, where I was shot down!_

_I'm coming,_ Zul-Därsch replied in the same manner, though he was puzzled. How could his friend have been "shot down"?

He turned Malkharor north and shot off, following the course of the Anduin. Soon he felt the presence of Anæstîr's Ring.

_Where are you?_ Zul-Därsch asked.

_Below,_ was the answer. Zul-Därsch again felt a pull, and followed it. He found his companion lying on the ground, robe torn, beneath the corpse of his dead steed.

"Are you injured?" he asked, coming over.

"No," Anæstîr replied. "Though the same I cannot say for poor Arakore." He got up and brushed the dirt from his robes.

"Come with me," Zul-Därsch offered. "Malkharor can bear us both. And as we travel you can tell your tale, for I would like an explanation."

"And you shall have it," Anæstîr replied, mounting Malkharor behind Zul-Därsch. The beast growled slightly but made little other objection to his extra burden.

The great Fell Beast of Mordor shot off into the sky, and Anæstîr was nearly thrown off. He clutched Malkharor's side just in time to prevent himself from falling.

"That I will give you," he said, laughing, as he righted himself. "Your beast may have been faster than mine. But alas, now we shall never know."

"It is of small concern," Zul-Därsch replied. "I should like to know how he died."

"Well, I was scouting the Anduin and heard voices. A company of orcs I found along the eastern shores, just north of the rapid of San Gebir. They were shooting arrows at three small boats in the water, though their aim was poor. The boats seemed to be of a silver hue, and the folk inside were clad in the strangest garments, that seemed somehow to meld into the background. It was hard to count them, there may have been six, or nine. I could sense them more easily than see them, and I swooped closer."

"Elves they seemed, or so I guessed, judging the make of the boats and their odd apparel. From Lothlórien I assume they came, for there seemed to be some enchantment about them. I felt a feeling very much like that we feel when near to the One, the presence of a great Force nearby, concealed, but deadly."

"One of the elves pointed a great bow in my direction, but I did not heed him, for I was still very high up. Alas that I underestimated the witchcraft of Lórien! Galadriel herself, maybe, had cast some spell on that bow, for the arrow travelled far more quickly than I had anticipated. It pierced right through the heart of Arakore, and he died in midair, spiralling and crashing to the ground!"

"That is a nuisance, for sure," Zul-Därsch agreed. "But we can get you another steed. Though I wonder what elves were doing so far south? Are you sure there were no Men; Boromir, for instance? For you say there may have been nine, and it is on the path from Rivendell to Minas Tirith."

"I could feel nine, yes, but they were not Men. No Man passes by the sorceress of Lórien and lives to tell the tale. And these folk were clad in her garb!"

"Very well. We shall report back to Barad-dûr with our tidings."

Very soon they arrived back at Sauron's Tower, and dismounted. Zul-Därsch saw a black horse tied to a pole outside.

"Look," he joked. "Your old horse had gone black, in mourning for the death of the new!"

"That is not my horse," Anæstîr answered. "I hope it means that another of the Nazgûl has returned."

Sure enough, when they entered, they found Kaq-Làrria. "Greetings!" he cried.

"The same to you," Zul-Därsch answered. "It is nice to know that our number is increasing."

"And it shall increase even more," he answered. "I know that three of our Order follow me close behind. But the horses they took from Rohan were not as fast as mine."

"And what colour were they?" Zul-Därsch asked. Kaq-Làrria did not realise he was jesting. He frowned at the question.

"Cherëdorn and Älbaschêr both selected black ones, of course. But Ol-Talán…"

"Don't mind him," Anæstîr laughed. "He is only jealous that my horse was grey, and will not drop the subject. But let us get inside; night is waning."

They retreated into the Tower to await the coming of the rest of the Nazgûl.

The evening of the next day, bells rang again from Barad-dûr. The three Ringwraiths inside the tower rushed to greet the three arriving. Cherëdorn and Älbaschêr rode up first, clad in black, with dark black horses. But Ol-Talán came last, and Zul-Därsch had to squint, not believing his eyes. The setting sun seemed to be playing tricks with his vision. It seemed as though the robes of the last Ringwraith were an emerald green, and his horse a palomino. Zul-Därsch groaned audibly.

"So much for intimidation!" he cried to Ol-Talán, after greeting the others.

"I did not deem intimidation necessary for my journey through Rohan, he answered in a very serious tone. "But why can we not wear green? Zul-Därsch, just because you were traditional doesn't mean we all must be."

"Our strength lies in fear," Zul-Därsch replied. "And you hardly look frightening, more like a joker. You should be the jester of Sauron, if you desire to dress as a clown."

"He is hardly a clown," Älbaschêr pointed out. "His robes are kingly enough, but for their colour."

"Fit for a king of Gondor, perhaps," Zul-Därsch retorted. "But I have been here the longest, and know best Sauron's strategy. Let me tell you, He will not allow you to wear green outside of Barad-dûr, nor any hue save black."

"Very well," Ol-Talán replied. "If it be the will of Sauron."

"We should travel inside," Älbaschêr suggested.

"Yes," Zul-Därsch agreed. "And none save I have steeds. You should all select one."

"Will our horses not do?" asked Cherëdorn in surprise. "_Mine_ is black."

"Sauron has provided better steeds – I have seen them," Anæstîr explained.

They travelled to the stables, and each selected a Fell Beast to their liking. Anæstir selected one who had been in the same litter as his former, and she was called Zantko, but Anæstîr changed her name to Arakora, "in honour of my valiant first beast," he said. Cherëdorn selected the most massive of the lot, whose name was Drádonor. Älbaschêr picked a ferocious male named Läaske. Kaq-Làrria picked a swift steed, Herana. Finally, Ol-Talán looked around at the remainders.

"Do they come in other colours?" he asked. Zul-Därsch glared at him, and the stable master shook his head. Ol-Talán took the greyest one he could find, Arkâree.

"Tell me why," Ol-Talán said to Zul-Därsch, "and I will wear only black."

"We must bring dread to our foes," he answered. "When we come near Men, you see how they shudder. Naught can destroy our image of fear, or the spell breaks, and we are powerless. Is that reason enough for you?"

"I suppose. It is not bad, at any rate. But I am not yet convinced."

"I will let Sauron Himself lecture you about it, then," Zul-Därsch said.

They left the stables and went up into the tower to receive instruction from the great Eye. They were commanded to search around again, but to avoid the river. After hearing Anæstîr's report, the Mouth of Sauron had no desire to send anyone else within reach of the elves' bows.

They found nothing that night, but the next day two more of their company returned. Zellon and Nardesch rode up together, both on black horses captured from the Rohirrim. They were granted better steeds (Anakror and Ílsalva, respectively) and joined the other six of the Nazgûl who had already returned. Their number now was eight, one short of completion. Only their master had not returned.

That night passed without incident, and Zul-Därsch returned, weary, from his fruitless search. He was not weary from fatigue, but rather, from the knowledge that, every day, the Ring drew nearer to Minas Tirith. And each time the Nazgûl did not succeed in finding It, It crept closer to Its destination. Zul-Därsch much desired to stop It before It reached Gondor, for his sake as well as Sauron's. Though he knew Mordor could assail the Tower of Guard, he had no desire to enter such a costly war. Every orc that died in the wars would have been able to give many productive years of service, had he or she survived. It was clearly in Sauron's best interest to preserve His servants, but to do so, the Ring had to be reclaimed before It reached Gondor, a feat that was seeming steadily less possible.

The next day the Eight reconvened in the High Tower and took counsel, trying to guess the moves of the Enemy. Who were the companions to Boromir who travelled out? Was the Elf, by any chance, Elrond himself, or one of his sons? And of the _hobbits_ they wondered much. Why did this obscure race make up almost half of the Company? Was Baggins with them, or had he stayed at Rivendell? And finally, how was Gandalf affecting their decisions? Once already Gandalf had outsmarted the Nazgûl. They had no desire to have that happen again. But what worried them most was the second, unknown Man. Who was he? A friend of Boromir's from Minas Tirith? The Mouth of Sauron doubted this. Älbaschêr suggested that he might be from the North – perhaps even one of the Rangers.

"I hope you are wrong!" cried Kaq-Làrria. "For if you guess correctly, then he is one of the last Men of Númenor!"

"No," Nardesch corrected him. "The race of the Númenóreans is extinct. They have grown weak, like common Men. There is no Man alive that we need fear."

They talked a while more, but at once their talk was disrupted. Suddenly they felt a Power seeking, and searching. Someone, by some magic, was trying to probe Sauron's stronghold. Barad-dûr the spy found, and he focused on the high chamber.

Then the Eye shot back, and the Palantír glowed. Zul-Därsch could feel his master Sauron as He eagerly sought out the source of the probe. From Rauros it seemed to come, and He stared in that direction. Amon Lhaw He scanned, then Tol Brandir.

The Eye neared Amon Hen, and the eight Ringwraiths eagerly followed Its gaze. But then, all of the sudden, darkness fell. The mysterious observer had retreated, just a second before Sauron caught him.

The Ringwraiths all let out a yell of despair. They had been so close to finding the Ring. For Zul-Därsch had no doubt that their mystery spy had used the Ring. He had felt It in the probing gaze.

"Alas," Anæstîr cried. "By good fortune we are in this Tower when the Ring-keeper deems fit to test his power. But our good fortune turned ill, as we missed him by a hair's width. Alas, he learned far more from us than we from him."

"One of you must fly there at once!" the Mouth of Sauron commanded.

"With your leave, I shall," Zul-Därsch offered. "My steed, Malkharor, is the swiftest."

"Thou wilt go? Then fly, while there is time! Run, grab thy steed, and make haste!"

Zul-Därsch bolted from the room. He was almost blind, as it was the middle of day, but he knew the passages of the fortress by heart. He quickly made it out to the stables, called to Malkharor, who came over, mounted him, and flew off.

He sped off toward the Falls of Rauros, travelling straight over Orodruin, from which fire leapt into the sky, and crossing high over the Black Gate; then with great speed soaring over the marshes and the Nindolf, and coming, by sunset, to the thunderous waterfall. He landed on the summit of Amon Hen, dismounted, and began to search.

Tracks he found near the throne that were fresh, and, sniffing, he could tell they were not those of Men. But he recognised the scent, though he could not recall why.

He searched further, and came upon a mound of corpses. Zul-Därsch stared in surprise, wondering who could have killed them. A mighty warrior no doubt, perhaps Boromir. But where would the Steward's son have vanished to?

He examined the dead, and found that many were not orcs of Mordor. They bore the sign of the White Hand. That was the symbol for Saruman, Zul-Därsch knew. He wondered what they had been doing. His sniffed, smelling the same scent here as he had near the summit. Suddenly he realised where he had smelled it before! It was back in the Shire! The smell was that of _hobbit_, and it seemed as though Saruman had captured one!

Zul-Därsch searched around further, but found no other important clues. He tried to put those that he had together. It seemed as though a _hobbit_, most probably Baggins, had used the Ring upon the summit of Amon Hen, perhaps to spy on Sauron and His armies. Then, realising that Sauron had been searching for him, he pulled the Ring off and bolted down the hill. He ran into the orcs, maybe even fighting them for a while before he was defeated. But they captured him and dragged him off. It seemed as though his companions had lingered a while longer at the battlefield, for the bodies had obviously been disturbed, and Zul-Därsch could see drag marks in the soft ground. Then the company had set off in pursuit.

He called Malkharor, hopped on his back, and sped off to report his findings.

By the middle of the night he made it back to the Great Tower, and reported to Sauron, His Mouth, and the Ringwraiths.

"Thou hast done well," the Mouth of Sauron said. "Thou canst not do aught about Saruman, for the time. Yet we should still have a messenger waiting just east of the Anduin. Wilt thou go?"

"If you ask it of me," Zul-Därsch replied.

"Sauron asketh it of thou," was the answer. Zul-Därsch nodded. "Go tomorrow-night, after thy rest, if thou dost desire a rest."

The next night Zul-Därsch flew off to the designated location. He had been told that a band of orcs, led by a Captain Grishnákh, was heading in that direction. They supposedly bore the captive from Amon Hen.

"But the Eye doth not trust these orcs, who prowl outside our boundaries," the Mouth of Sauron had told him. "Captain Grishnákh doth not know that his captives bear the Ring! Do not let him find it out!"

Zul-Därsch waited for several days, but no one came to him. He estimated that they should have reached him by now. But he was forbidden to cross the river, by Sauron's orders. He sighed and continued to wait.

At length a summons came to him, from Barad-dûr.

_Zul-Därsch, where are you?_ Anæstîr asked, through the silent communication of the Nine Rings.

_East of Anduin, waiting,_ he replied.

_Captain Grishnákh didn't show?_

_No._

_Then return right here immediately! We are at Minas Morgul, and the Witch King has finally returned. Saruman's uruks must have won over our orcs and taken the captive. We doubt the captain, if he is still alive, will dare to show himself after such a failure._

Anæstîr paused, then went on. _Also, scouts have reported that Saruman is emptying Isengard, and sending a vast army through Rohan! Come back – we may need to go to war with Saruman, if he has the Ring!_

Zul-Därsch, glad for an end to the monotony, but furious at Grishnákh's failure, hopped on Malkharor and sped off.


	23. Chapter 23

**XXIII**

**Sheglock**

Over the next few days, Morrick steadily grew more healthy. He was soon able to get up and leave the bed entirely. By the fourth day since he had taken the medicine, Morrick was as well as any of the others, and indeed seemed healthier than them, for he had been spared the anxiety and uncertainty that had ruled the lives of his friends over the past few days. Sheglock was joyous to see his brother so miraculously healed.

As promised, they threw an enormous party in his favour, and Kâlask provided surplus Man-flesh, and some excellent wine. There was food and drink enough for everyone, and the table was filled with gaiety and laughter. Sheglock could not remember ever having felt so relieved, or exultant, in his life.

They stayed at Kâlask's house that night, but Morrick was anxious to head out the next day. As he lay in bed, Sheglock recalled their conversation of last night.

"Sauron healed me," his brother had reminded him. "At least let me repay Him by doing as He asked!"

"There was no time set by which we had to return," Sheglock had replied.

"Still, I do not want to seem disloyal," Morrick had then explained.

Sheglock had sighed. "Disloyal is the last word I would use to describe you, Morrick."

Morrick then had shrugged. "You're my brother. Let's hope Sauron thinks as highly of me as you seem to."

Sheglock woke to the distant chirp of birds, a sound seldom heard in Gorgoroth. He closed his eyes and listened for a while. It as very pleasant, he thought, laying there. He unlocked and opened the glass window, and looked out across Alzág, feeling the cool breeze blow across his face. Spring in Dorezátz was exceptionally pleasurable, especially after the cold, dead stone of Barad-dûr, to which he would need to soon return.

Kâlask came into the room. "Oh," he said, surprised. "I had not realised that you were awake. I was coming to wake you, as your brother insists on your departure this morning. Are you enjoying the fragrance of the flowers?"

"And the breeze on my face," Sheglock replied.

"Yes, it is very nice," Kâlask said slowly. "Though it comes at a price. Alzág is far from Barad-dûr, and justice is rarely upheld. Lynching is frequent, and it is unsafe to go out at night. But, aside from that, the landscape is beautiful! You should see the trees of Alzág in blossom!"

"Well, if my brother has his way, I likely won't," Sheglock told him.

Kâlask sighed. "You are probably right. When your time at the Tower is up, though, visit me! And come in spring or summer, not winter. Then you shall see the beauty of the Dorezátzean landscape. While, come now, and close the window as you leave."

Sheglock shut and locked the window, and followed him outside. Morrick and Firri were already on the porch, wargs and provisions already packed.

"There you are!" Morrick cried. "You always rise early!"

"He was awake, actually, when I came in," Kâlask said.

"Then he must've been writing poetry," Morrick decided. "People like my brother…" Kâlask ignored him, and Sheglock laughed.

"Well," Kâlask said, sighing, "we have come to another parting. I am old, and it is possible I will never see you again. But listen to my advice. Never give up hope. For all my life, I've remained an optimist. Pragmatic, yet optimistic. Whatever happens, keep a light heart, for that by itself can get you through a great many tough situations. Remember, what may seem to be the apocalypse of today is only the dawn of tomorrow. Now, with hope, go forth into the world!"

They thanked him a great many times. Firri again offered payment, which he declined.

"Your friend's recovery is payment enough for me," he told her. Firri sighed and finally let the topic drop.

Then, under the warm sun, the beginnings of spring all around them, they set off for Barad-dûr, and the centre of the might of Sauron. Morrick and Firri kept their eyes peeled ahead. But Sheglock looked over his shoulder almost the whole way, watching Kâlask, who was standing on the porch, still as stone. Sheglock waved, and was happy when Kâlask waved back. Then they turned a corner and he was gone.

They approached the northern gates of Alzág, which were open, though a guard was outside. The guard however, did nothing to prevent them from leaving the city. Sheglock, remembering what Kâlask had said about bandits and crooks in Dorezátz, assumed he was there to question intruders. Sheglock waved, but the stern-faced guard did not acknowledge his greeting.

They rode slowly down the road, meeting only the occasional orc riding swiftly by them. These orcs seemed to have urgent, important business, and seldom stopped to chat. The few who did spoke only of the imminent outbreak of the war.

"That means the war may begin tomorrow," Morrick said, alarmed. "We need to get to Barad-dûr, to help before it's too late!"

Sheglock sighed, not really sure why Morrick was so eager to travel so quickly.

"We don't need to rush, Morrick," he said reproachingly.

"Yes we do, or I'll seem unfaithful in the Eye of Sauron."

"Blame it on me, if you want," Sheglock said, "But I don't want to run down this road a third time. I've galloped it twice already, for you." He was tired of his brother's continual _Sauron-is-more-important-than-everything-else-in-the-world_ mood.

They arrived the next day at noon in Creantkor, but Morrick would not allow them to stop.

"We'll make a deal," he told Sheglock. "I won't hurry down the road, as long as you don't make detours or stop at cities."

"What about Ulûrk?" Sheglock asked.

"What about him?"

"I was planning to go by and visit him, and see how the army is working for him."

"You know we can't do that!" Morrick yelled. Then he paused. "No, I just realised that you can. But I'll go on to Barad-dûr. If you really want to see Ulûrk, you can go. You are not bound to the promise; it was that I return to the Great City, not you. So, when we get there, we'll decide."

"I'll follow Morrick, whichever way he goes," Firri said. "I'm not about to lose you again," she added, to him.

They continued down the road, passing through the plain of Rektànse. They hurried through this misty land, not because of haste, but rather, because they felt uneasy in it. They saw no one on the road save one solitary traveller, riding a warg swiftly toward Dorezátz. He passed right by without speaking to them.

Soon they came to the cliffs again, and the uneven land slowed their progress. They tediously crept up, and everyone, even Sheglock, was annoyed by the delay. Sheglock really wanted to see the trolls again.

Eventually they reached the portion of the road that zigzagged up the sheer cliffs, and the going became easier. By the fifth day since they had arrived at Creantkor, they could see the trolls' cave ahead. The sun had already hidden from their view, blocked by the massive rock wall, so Sheglock proposed that they spend the night at Mark and Bob's.

"I suppose I have done you enough inconvenience," Morrick said. "Very well."

Sheglock ran forward, excited, to the cave ahead. He was glad that his brother had finally relented. He burst in with joy. "Hey, guys, I'm back!"

There was no answer.

Sheglock looked around the empty cave, disbelieving. "Mark? Bob?"

Slowly, frustration replaced the feeling of utter shock. Sheglock wasn't sure who he was mad at, but he was angry – angry at fate, angry that things never went his way. He sighed, remembering Kâlask's last words to them.

_I'll try to be optimistic,_ he thought, knowing full well that he would fail.

He wondered where they could have gone. Could they have moved, somehow? Maybe they had found another, nicer cave, he thought, trying at hope. Firri and Morrick came in behind him. "Where are they," his brother asked, looking around. Sheglock shrugged.

Firri went over to the far side of the cave. "What's this?" she wondered, picking up a small scrap of paper.

"Read it," Morrick said. Firri looked at it, then wrinkled her none in distaste.

"Ugh – no! It's one of Mark's poems!"

"I'll read it," Sheglock offered irritably, walking over to her and snatching it. He looked down at the trolls' note. Then he began to read, though he was more singing than reading, in a manner similar to Mark's.

_Alas, for all that's good must one day end!_

_Alas that death awaits each kindly friend!_

_Alas that from this cave, He chose to send_

_Us out into the sun _– _a dread errand._

_Who knows if we shall ever return home?_

_More likely that we travel to our doom._

_Where, lost, for many long years we will roam_

_The empty roads, with naught ahead but gloom._

_Remember us, that be our only plea;_

_The trolls, yea, trolls, who could write poetry._

_Remember that after darkness is light,_

_And in the end that good will win the fight._

_Maybe in this life we could not be good._

_When we go off to war we will shed blood._

_But Robert and I hope for better days –_

_A day when art all the wide world will praise,_

_And though we go now off to War and Strife_

_(To perish, probably by silver Knife)_

_Onward we travel, arms open, to Life._

Sheglock finished reading, dropped the paper to the door, and wept openly. They were gone, off in the wars. They didn't expect to return, or even survive. Two of his best friends, gone to sacrifice themselves in battle. It was more than he could bear.

And they had given similar advice to him as Kâlask. _That after darkness is light/And in the end that good will win the fight._ Sheglock tried to compose himself, trying to go on, but he didn't find the strength. He couldn't dare to hope to see them again.

Morrick was leaning over him. But his brother wasn't mocking him, rather, speaking softly. "Up you go, it'll be all right. The effects of the War will reach far and wide; this is only the start of it. But when it is over, we will get back together. Everything heals in time, Sheglock, remember how our mother Klára always said so, and still does. Up you get, now, let's go."

Sheglock allowed his brother to guide him outside the cave. Then he collapsed against the cliff wall in despair.


	24. Chapter 24

**XXIV**

**Ulûrk**

Ulûrk sighed, staring out his open window, across the barren plains of Gorgoroth. He was weary after a long day of training. Captain Khentz had been no cruller than usual, and Zhatren no more obnoxious than any other day, but it still was too much. Even their usual was more than he could tolerate.

Ulûrk sighed, thinking back over the last month. Had it really been a month since he had joined the army? And yet it seemed that it was just yesterday.

But at the same time, much had happened in that month. He had learned how to handle a variety of weapons, including the axe, the bow, and of course, the sword. His reflexes, Ulûrk thought, had been sharpened. And he had definitely improved his skill, for he was one of the top fencers whenever they had mock-battles with the wooden swords.

Ulûrk took out his bow, which was lying by the front door, deciding to practice a few shots before going to bed. Maybe he could shoot down a bird for supper, though the monthly salary of twenty-five silver coins was more than enough to buy him food. Ulûrk sighed, selected an arrow from the quiver (Sauron paid for his weapons, as well as the entire army's), and pulled it back. He waited for a few minutes, but no birds flew past, so he let the arrow loose, to see how far he could send it. It flew out the window, and landed a good hundred yards from the house. Ulûrk grunted, imaging the voice of Captain Khentz: "Not good at all, Mr. Smith. I bet your grandmother could shoot farther!"

Ulûrk groaned, setting the bow on the shelf, not bothering to retrieve the arrow. At least his training ended in a week. Then he would be ready to go out to the War, which was already beginning, in parts. He was anxious to slay some Men, for, as a general rule, soldiers took possession of the Men they killed, to eat or sell the meat as they pleased. It was one of the reasons that many veterans were so wealthy.

He sighed, watching the sun set as he went to bed, exhausted. Ulûrk laughed to himself, wondering what Sheglock would say if he could see him now. Then he sighed again, realising just how much he missed the brothers. They had gone off to Dorezátz over a month ago. He wondered where they were, and how they were doing.

Before the sun had even vanished over the mountains, Ulûrk was fast asleep; resting for what he knew would be another early day tomorrow.

The next day he rose just before dawn, and grabbed a small loaf of bread, along with some dried and salted bird-flesh. These he ate while walking toward the barracks. Many soldiers lived on the training site, but there had not been room for Ulûrk. He had to walk about half an hour to get there, which was why he had to rise so early. And training was from the morning to the late afternoon, with only a brief lunch break at noon.

When he arrived, the others were already clustered around the captain. Ulûrk tried to sneak in, unnoticed. But Captain Khentz spotted him.

"You're late, Mr. Smith! Come along, no one gave you privileges to sleep in."

"I'm sorry, sir," Ulûrk said. Captain Khentz ignored him and continued to say whatever he had been saying.

"Now, before we were so rudely interrupted, I was reminding you that you are nearing the end of your training. But before you do, there's one more thing that you must learn, and that is Sauron's strategy. He has this war planned out, and knows how He's gone fight it. You've got to learn His tactics, and use them."

"You will learn this with a visiting 'professor' named Sir Dalscez. He fought in the wars against Osgiliath, using this strategy, and believes that it works very well. Tomorrow we will have you switch your focus from weapons training to strategy. I believe Sir Dalscez has a test prepared for you. Pass it, and you will graduate, becoming an official member of Sauron's army. Fail, and I shall scoff, if you survive to be scoffed at." As he said these last words, he looked straight at Ulûrk, who stared unflinchingly back. He wasn't going to have to deal with the captain any more after he was done.

Zhatren came right over to Ulûrk once they had dispersed.

"Oh golly I had no idea we had a test are you nervous do you think I'll do okay?"

"Yer gonna do fine," he said gruffly. "I'm thinkin' that I'm gonna practice the bow again ta-day." Practising the bow was Ulûrk's one way to get rid of Zhatren, who was too small to use a full size bow. Resultantly, he had gotten lots of archery practice.

"Aw c'mon you sure why don't we do swords we can duel."

"No, I need practice with the bow," Ulûrk lied. "I need ta be able to pass if it comes up on this test."

"Oh okay I'll do knives again hey come over at break and let's talk about this strategy thing I don't really get it do you?"

"I need a lot of practice," Ulûrk said, feeling slightly guilty. "Yer gonna find out ta-morrow."

"Okay I'll wait see ya bye."

"Bye," Ulûrk grunted, hurrying off before the kid could add anything else.

He went over to the archery range, borrowing a bow, as he had not brought his (he had really intended to practise the sword until Zhatren came over). He grabbed a few arrows, and fired relentlessly. His aim certainly was improving, but Ulûrk had no idea how well he could hit a moving target. The wooden bull's eyes were immobile.

"Don't bring weapons tomorrow," Captain Khentz reminded them when the day was at last over. "You'll meet inside, with Sir Dalscez. Though Mr. Smith seems a little mixed up. You were supposed to bring a weapon _today_."

Ulûrk didn't respond. Maybe it was just in his head, but Khentz seemed to pick on him more than the rest. He wondered what he had done to offend the captain.

Feeling annoyed, as usual, he trudged back home and threw himself in bed.

The next day he woke at dawn, and found that someone was knocking on his door. He got out of bed (still in his clothes from the day before) and crossed to the door. Peering through the peephole, he saw an unfamiliar orc.

"Who is it?" he asked, opening the door.

"Are you Ulûrk?" the stranger asked. Ulûrk didn't like it when people knew his name, but he didn't know theirs.

"Yes," he replied testily. The stranger seemed taken aback.

"Uh – I'm Largg," he told Ulûrk. The name meant nothing to him.

"Yeah," Ulûrk said irritably. "What d'ya want?"

"I was just, er, supposed ta give ya this letter. It's, er, from Morrick."

At once Ulûrk admonished himself for his impolite greeting. This orc was probably one of Morrick's companions.

"Oh!" he cried apologetically. "Sorry fer my rudeness. I jus' didn't recognise ya, an' ya woke me. Sorry."

Largg seemed pleased by the apology. "Well, have a good day, then," he said cheerfully.

"Same ta ya," Ulûrk replied. Largg turned and walked hurriedly off, and he shut the door, went inside, and lit a lantern to read the letter.

_Dear Ulûrk,_

_I write to you in apology, as I have not been able to return to Garkhôn. I fear that you may be worried, and would like to ease your worry. (But I am afraid that this may only make you more anxious – don't let it!) Know that my companions and I remain in Alzág, trying unsuccessfully to sway the stubborn governor._

_But that is not the reason for my long absence. I would have returned sooner, but I am not feeling well. (He is seriously ill.) I have waited quite a while, and my condition has not improved. I fear that I might (He's not going to die.) Sheglock plans to head off to Barad-dûr in a week, and try get me the cure, if there is (I know there is one, and will get it.)_

_(We are staying in the house of a very nice old veteran, Kâlask. He has taken care of Morrick and the rest of us at no cost. Please, Ulûrk, don't fret about us. My brother is in very good hands. We will be fine)_

_Sheglock should take this letter to you as he travels to the great city Great City (he insists I capitalise it) of Sauron. I hope you receive this, and write back. Send any reply to the address of our good friend, and my saviour, Kâlask, 8220 Silverblade Ln., Alzág, Dorezátz – though I understand if you do not reply, as I doubt many mail carriers would be willing to travel here! Hope to see you soon,_

_(Love,) Morrick (and Sheglock)_

Ulûrk sighed. So Morrick was ill, and that was why they had not yet returned. He looked at the letter again, which appeared to have been hastily done, and couldn't help smiling at how Sheglock had inserted his little comments in parentheses. He could imagine them writing it, Sheglock with the pen, Morrick reciting, and Sheglock occasionally adding something of his own, to keep the tone light. And Sheglock's comments did help decrease his worry. But he could tell that even Sheglock was worried, and wondered how long his friend's optimism could last. He sighed and put the letter aside.

But one thing troubled him, and it took Ulûrk a while to figure out what it was. At length it came to him. Morrick had written that Sheglock would deliver the letter. Why, then, had that other orc, Glarg, or whatever his name had been, send it instead? Had Morrick gotten so ill that Sheglock had chosen not to leave his side?

Ulûrk cast aside his doubts. They were no use to him now. It was nice to hear from his friends, and know they were still alive. What happened next, well, Ulûrk decided, he would deal with it when it happened. But today he had to go to this Strategy class, and finish his training. Casting his many thoughts concerning the letter aside, Ulûrk grabbed his bow (then remembered that he wasn't supposed to bring any weapons, and put it back) and headed out the door.


	25. Chapter 25

**XXV**

**Largg**

Largg and Burk rode swiftly for many days, urged on by Tesatak, the orc who had summoned them. He was a strange character, often unpredictable, and quick to anger. He insisted that they ride from dawn to dusk, as the War was already beginning.

"We haven't time," he said urgently, for about the tenth time. "These winter days are short! We must ride on!"

"It's spring now," Burk reminded him. "The days are longer."

"What do I care about the length of the days?" Tesatak cried. "Hurry, let's get a move on!"

They were in the foggy plains on the western end of Dorezátz, of which Largg didn't know (nor care to know) the name. One hasty day they had already travelled through this desolate, empty region. Now, it was dawn again, or would be if they could see the sun through the mist. Tesatak, with his usual urgency, was trying to get them moving.

Largg was cold and wet, and his friend Burk seemed unhappy. Largg guessed the reason was that their new guide refused to let them breakfast until they rode for several hours. One thing Largg had learned about Burk, during the month they had become friends, was that he needed to be fed, or he got exceptionally cranky. Their guide seemed similar in a way, but he seemed to run off action instead of food.

In a brief pause in all the ruckus and hustling of their company, Largg heard, quietly, but clearly and distinctly, the beat of a warg's paws upon the road.

"Hey," he cried. "Someone's comin'!"

Presently they perceived a dark shadow moving swiftly through the mists, riding toward them from Gorgoroth. Tesatak hailed the rider.

"Oy! What tidings from the West?"

The warg-rider stopped, and they could see that he was arrayed in full body armour, with a long, sharp-tipped spear. He briefly surveyed Largg and the others before answering, speaking quickly, as though in great haste.

"War's almost begun," he said. "Barad-dûr's getting very tense, you can almost feel it. Sauron is sure the Ring has made it to Gondor. Now it's up to us to strike first. Swift but deadly will be the Sword of Sauron when it comes. Stab hard enough, He figures, and you needn't stab a second time."

"Then we must hurry! Has Sauron began mobilising His troops?"

"Yes, but so far only within Mordor. I'm off to summon some more soldiers from Creantkor. Orcs, Men, trolls, all alike, they are all headed off to war. Sauron already has summoned the fierce but valiant Men of the East, and from Harad many great hosts march, though I hear they are being ambushed by the Captain Faramir. Still, Sauron is, and has been for a long while, amassing a large force."

"We must join it!" Tesatak cried. "Here we are, three capable soldiers of Mordor, stuck in this rotten fog. Well, sir, thank you for your report." Tesatak saluted the stranger, and he returned the gesture, then rode quickly off.

"You should take his example," Tesatak yelled toward Burk, who had stolen some meat from the packs. "He rides as though all of Gondor is pursuing him. Give that meat back to me! Now come, we ride on. Time for eating will come later!"

Reluctantly Burk stowed the jerky in his pocket and hopped on his warg. Largg and Tesatak did likewise, and they rode on for a long while through the unchanging landscape. Fog surrounded them, so thick that the eye could see naught but white even a few yards ahead. Largg soon lost sight of his companions, and only by his ears could he tell they were still ahead of him.

"We'll stop here," Tesatak said at last, by mid-morning. "We need to wait for this accursed fog to lift. I have several fellows I'm supposed to recruit round here, and they live in an army outpost nearby. But in this fog I can't find it! Curse the delay!"

Despite their leader's frantic paranoia, Largg actually enjoyed a good rest. It took an hour for the fog to clear. By around noon, they could see the wide empty lands stretching several leagues in each direction. The fog was still present, though less potent.

Tesatak looked around, then groaned. Largg followed his gaze. He was staring at a distant black shadow several leagues to the east, behind them on the road.

"What's the matter?" Largg asked.

"Quick!" Tesatak cried. "Back on your wargs! We overshot it in the stupid fog!"

Largg obediently hopped back on his warg, but Burk took more persuasion. Eventually he succumbed to Tesatak's hollering and they started off. In less than half an hour, they reached the shadow, which turned out to be a cluster of tents, set just far enough from the road that it had been invisible in the morning's fog.

Tesatak rode hurriedly up to the nearest of the tents. An elderly old orc came out to greet him. "Good afternoon," she said.

"Is Vógzel here," her demanded. The old woman seemed a little taken aback at the sharpness of the question, but composed herself.

She shook her head. "'Fraid not, sir. Check another tent."

He rode off before she had even finished speaking, and yelled into the second tent.

"Oi! Do you know aught of the soldier Vógzel?"

"That'd be I," the orc replied, emerging from his tent.

Tesatak looked highly relieved. "Good! Ive been told to summon you. Sauron is gathering all His army. You are needed!"

"I'll head off ta Barad-dûr ta-marra, then," Vógzel replied carelessly.

"No you won't!" Tesatak cried in alarm. "You'll leave right now – double quick. Fly to Sauron as though Captain Faramir himself is chasing you!"

Largg felt bad for Vógzel as he rushed inside to gather his possessions. Tesatak waited impatiently outside, rhythmically tapping his fingers on the hilt of his sword.

Eventually Vógzel emerged, carrying a heavy pack and a stave. "Where's your warg!" Tesatak demanded. "How do you expect to run there!"

"I weren't planning on running," Vógzel explained. "I was gonna walk."

"No!" he cried in despair. "That won't do!"

"You can use my warg, ya know, if Burk don't care ta have two orcs on 'is. Do ya, Burk?"

"No. Go ahead."

Largg hopped off his warg and onto the back of Burk's. Vógzel took the now free warg that Largg had previously been riding. Burk's warg did not seem pleased with these arrangements, and growled softly.

"I hope 'e can hold my weight," Largg said in concern.

"She'll be fine," he said. "Won't ya?" he added to the warg. She growled again.

Urged on by Tesatak, they rode off instantly, hurrying away through the empty land. Ahead they could see, like a great darkness, the cliffs. Eventually they rode into their shadow, and it grew very chill and cold. Largg shivered as the wind generated by the warg's movement blew by.

They did not speak at all, but just rode on. The fog encircled them again, thicker (if possible) than before. Largg was frozen through, and each part of his body seemed numb. Long into the night they rode, not halting until long after Largg was weary.

The next day dawned, and the fog was not as thick as before. Largg found that they had travelled further than he had reckoned last night. They were only a mile or two from the base of the cliffs.

Tesatak, as usual, insisted that they ride almost an hour before stopping. They made it a good distance up the cliffs, then went on. Largg recognised this land – they were nearing the place where he had fallen. Burk seemed to also notice, and seemed uncomfortable at the memory of it.

They paused outside the trolls gave, for which Largg was glad, as he wanted to visit them. However, to his surprise, Tesatak also seemed anxious to see them. He hopped off his black warg and practically ran into the cave. Largg approached in a more traditional fashion. As he walked up he could hear Mark's voice greeting them.

"'Ey! 'Oo's this 'ere?"

"Largg entered the cave, blinking in the sudden dark. "Look!" Bob cried. "It's Largg!"

"Hi, guys!" Largg cried. Tesatak ignored everyone and began speaking to Mark, the nearest troll.

"Mark and Robert, citizens of Mordor, you are hereby summoned by the Great Eye to do service in Sauron's name, namely, fight in His War. You shall travel as soon as you can to Barad-dûr, to receive instruction. I mean, _as soon as you can_, that being tonight. Understand that your services are of great use to the Eye, and be proud!"

"We're fightin'? Mark asked, incredulous. Largg was shocked.

"You can't do this!" he yelled.

"Sauron does it, not I. I am merely His humble messenger. Now, let's go. With haste! Come on!" he hastened out of the cave, but Largg remained.

"I'm so sorry!" he said quietly to the trolls. "I know ya don't like killing orcs, not even as food. War is the last thing I'd ask ya ta do!"

Mark nodded. He looked tortured, and slowly lifted his head toward Largg. "I'm gonna write a poem 'bout it," he replied softly. "Ta teach the world. Ta spread hope. Our las' act o' good before we go an' spread violence…" He started humming, then softly singing, "_We all just wanna be good_."

Tesatak entered, glaring furiously at Largg. "Come ON!"

I'm staying here," Largg answered with spontaneous resolution. He really didn't want to leave the trolls. Who knew when he would see them again. They might not survive the war…

"Your coming out _right now_, and riding off," Tesatak told him. Largg considered this for a moment.

"I was never summoned," he replied. "Ya summoned Burk." Largg though he had scored a strong point. Tesatak seemed frazzled.

"But you don't have a warg!"

"I'll walk with Mark an' Bob!" Largg cried in delight. The plan made perfect sense. It would free up Burk's warg, and Tesatak would be able to travel faster, like he always seemed to want. And he could always meet back up with Burk in Garkhôn.

"I'm summoning you now, by executive rights of Sauron. You are to travel to your town with your comrade Burk and report to the barracks. Now _get_!"

He forcefully dragged Largg from the cave as the trolls watched in shock. Largg struggled in vain, but the messenger was far stronger than he.

"On your warg!" Tesatak demanded. "Now, GO!"

Largg waved one last time to the trolls, imprisoned by the sun in their cave, and reluctantly hopped behind Burk on his warg. He did not have the will or energy to fight the frantic Tesatak. Morosely the trolls watched him, tears welling up in Mark's eyes.

Then Tesatak shot off, and they were gone.

"Is he always so hasty, d'ya know?" Vógzel asked Largg.

"I guess," Largg answered. "To me, e's about as nice as a wild bear."

Burk laughed grimly, then slapped the warg on her side, and she hurried to catch up with Tesatak, who was already far ahead.

By the end of that day, they reached the top of the cliffs. Largg looked across the vast, barren plain of Gorgoroth. All about, like tiny pieces on an enormous chessboard, orcs were moving to and fro. Some were solitary, crossing the rough terrain where no roads lay, but on the roads many armies marched. Tesatak stared across the hustling province.

"So the War is beginning," he said softly. "These are but the first tremors before the earth-shattering quake. But haste is needed. That is our only hope. To strike before Gondor can use the Ring against us! Let's ride on!"

And they did, far into the night. It seemed that now Mordor would not sleep. A long while they rode, until, at last, Tesatak's warg collapsed with weariness, and he was forced to relent.

The next morning there was a red glow over Mordor. The sun was swollen and deep red in hue, and Largg looked across Gorgoroth uneasily. Over Barad-dûr and Orodruin a great cloud of smoke hung, and already the wind was blowing it westward.

"What is that?" Largg asked.

"The art of Sauron, a veil to block the sun. Night falls, and dawn may not come again, for a long time. On your warg – now more than ever, we must not dawdle!"

They rode again for a great many leagues. As the day progressed, the cloud swelled ominously. It was like that of a great storm, as though Nature herself had risen in wrath and was threatening to engulf them.

That evening they reached the turnoff point for Burk and Largg, who were to return to their companies in Garkhôn, and march from there to Barad-dûr. "Go," Tesatak cried, as a farewell. "Make haste!"

Then he and Vógzel sped off toward Barad-dûr.

Burk shrugged, then turned the warg toward Garkhôn. They rested that night on the road, and arrived the next day at their hometown. Largg looked over his shoulder, but the cloud lay over Ithilien, and was hardly perceptible from here. He felt far more relaxed, either because the gloom no longer oppressed him, or because Tesatak had left.

That morning Burk dropped Largg off at Ulûrk's, to deliver the letter. "And I'll return this warg to Gortog," he said before riding off. "We'll see each other again at the barracks."

"'Kay," Largg replied, waving one last time as his friend hopped on the warg and started off. He turned to the house he had been dropped by, strode forward, and knocked on the door.

A strong-looking, grim-faced orc opened the door. "Who is it?" he asked.

"Are you Ulûrk?" Largg asked hesitantly. He seemed so different from Sheglock, in both his appearance and his speech. Largg hoped he had gotten the right address.

"Yes," the orc replied, as though annoyed by his visit. Largg was puzzled, and hesitated a while, not sure whether he should take Ulûrk's rudeness personally.

"Uh – I'm Largg," he explained, getting no recognition.

"Yeah," Ulûrk said irritably. "What d'ya want?"

Largg felt very put out. Was this the thanks he would get for delivering the letter?

"I was just, er, supposed ta give ya this letter." Largg stuttered, backing away slightly and holding it out. "It's, er, from Morrick."

"Oh!" Ulûrk cried, sounding genuinely embarrassed. "Sorry fer my rudeness. I jus' didn't recognise ya, an' ya woke me. Sorry."

Largg was pleased by the apology. At least it hadn't been personal. Largg could understand tiredness – as he was exhausted himself.

"Well, have a good day, then," he said cheerfully, turning to go. He felt as though he might have found another friend.

"Same ta ya," Ulûrk replied, his tone light. Largg nodded at him, but he had already closed the door.

Without further ado, Largg started walking down the road to the barracks.


	26. Chapter 26

**XXVI**

**Ulûrk**

Ulûrk arrived early to the training camp, and to his displeasure, the only other orc who had already arrived was Captain Khentz. Fortunately, the captain did not say anything as Ulûrk passed, but just glowered. Ulûrk was relieved, for he had a lot on his mind, with the letter from Morrick and the uncertainty of the day's training, and he would have had trouble keeping his temper. He sighed when he reached the door, opened it, and entered the room.

There were twelve or so small tables scattered about the room in a semi-orderly fashion. Each had from one to four chairs by it. Ulûrk chose one off to the corner that had no neighbouring chairs, to try and prevent Zhatren from coming to sit by him.

As time passed the other cadets slowly milled in and took their places. Ulûrk was pleased when he saw Zhatren cross to the other side of the room and sit down.

Feeling like today might not be so bad, Ulûrk waited for the visiting veteran. Eventually, after all the cadets had waited silently for several minutes, the door opened. Captain Khentz entered, along with an old orc that Ulûrk assumed was the professor.

"Okay," Khentz announced. "You are finished with field training, or as finished as you are going to get. Many of you have practiced for war all your lives. Some have had little practice at all. Either way, there's is no more time for us to teach you anything more. I leave you in the hands of Sir Dalscez here, a very knowledgeable orc, who will share his thoughts on how to fight and kill effectively."

With that Khentz left the room and slammed the door. Ulûrk dearly hoped never to see him again. He turned his attention to the teacher.

"However courteous he may be, your captain is wrong," Sir Dalscez began. Ulûrk saw several of the other cadets smile at this, and he felt the same. It was nice to hear someone of authority speak against the unpopular captain. Sir Dalscez continued.

"I will not teach you how to kill your enemy. That you learned already. I am here to expose you to the other half of warfare. To let you know the fear in the surrounded foe, with certain death on all sides, and no escape. I will tell you of the grief felt by the family of the deceased, seeing their loved ones mutilated bodies. I will show you the hopelessness of the besieged city, with no chance of victory, nor escape.

"I shall let you know, the sword is not what will, in the end, win the war. The valiant deeds of battle are only one side of the war. The other is not tangible, and for that it is all the more deadly. It sweeps across armies, cities, and countries, destroying them from the inside outwards. It is the force of despair, of depression, of uncertainty, no less potent than the cold steel of our knives. _Fear_ is Sauron's most powerful weapon.

"Long and hard has He laboured to instil fear in our enemies. From the beginning he built Mordor as something to be feared. Foes of our country dare not speak its name, calling it instead 'the land of Shadow'. Sauron is known outside of Mordor as 'the Dark Lord', and He is pleased with the name. 'Mount Doom' is what they call Orodruin, the Mountain of Fire. To the West, Barad-dûr is 'the Dark Tower'. All places in Mordor are feared, and their names, even, have been made more threatening. This is all part of the plan.

"All our craft and design has been fitted to this purpose. Let me give an example. Come, draw your knives!"

Many of the orcs in the room obliged, but some hesitated. At last one of them (whose name escaped Ulûrk) spoke up.

"Sir, Captain Khentz told us not to take our weapons."

"Did he? Very well then, those that did not bring them are exempt. Now, I want those of you who have knives to examine the hilt. If there is a design on it, of a Man or orc, even if it is only a single body part, hold it up."

Ulûrk looked at the hilt of his knife, which was carved in the likeness of a grotesque head. He had never really paid attention to it before, but now it was somewhat displeasing. He raised it above his head, and looked back at Sir Dalscez.

"If the design is disquieting, gross, or mutilated in any way, lower your knife," Sir Dalscez ordered. Ulûrk lowered his. So did everyone else in the room.

"You see?" the professor asked. "All the images we make are meant to intimidate our enemies. This is psychological warfare. The mind of the enemy is his own bane. Fear can conquer it. Grief and hopelessness can cause the will to shatter. Anger can cause hastiness, which leads to error. These are your weapons.

"Another example, if I may, is the insignia of the Eye. It has been crafted to be frightening, and is a token of fear to our foes. But it is a beacon of hope to us, a rallying point, for the armies of Mordor.

"But mental warfare is a two-edged sword, and not all of Sauron's designs work so nicely. The Nazgûl, for one, intimidate both friend and foe alike. Despair they bring upon our foes, as they feel overpowered by the immense might of the Rings of Power. But unless we are wary, it hits us too. That is why I am here. To tell you how Sauron fights, and prepare you for it.

"And, on that point, know that Sauron is brewing a great smoke, which the wind will carry to Gondor, to blot out the light and cause the Men to lose hope, and also the will to battle. Yet it will cover Gorgoroth too; that cannot be prevented. Do not let it affect you! The Men believe that we orcs fear the sun – that is not true. But let them keep their superstition, and act as though the oncoming cloud makes you feel at peace, not disturbed. It will become dark, and the sun may not come through for a long time. Today's may well be the last sunlight you see ere the end of the war. But, if you have the strength to endure it, you triumph over your enemy, and prove that your will is the stronger. Are you weak?"

He paused, and a great cry of "_NO!_" rose from the room.

"We shall see," Sir Dalscez said.

"Uh, sir?" one of the cadets, who Ulûrk thought was called Urzoxu, asked.

"Yes?"

"Why does Sauron use this, when it affects us too?"

"Well, first, because orcs are stronger than Men, and less likely to despair. Second, because Sauron cares for every orc. Each life to Him is valuable. He wants to minimise His losses, by weakening the enemy's will."

Urzoxu laughed. "So, what, is He growing sentimental?"

"Not exactly," Sir Dalscez replied. "Rather, He cares what each orc can provide. A dead orc does not help Him at all, whereas one who survives the war can give, after it, many long years of service. We have the larger and more powerful army, and will certainly win. But, He asks Himself, at what cost? That is the reason behind this."

"Now, of course, only soldiers strong in will can join His army. Training has already made you strong in battle. My test will examine your character. You have been assigned, along with a great many others, to the first regiment that will march from Minas Morgul, west to Minas Tirith. Tomorrow I shall take you on a – ah, field study. We will travel to Cirith Ungol, the tower just East of the great city of the Ringwraiths. There your test shall commence."

"It will oh no what is the test what do we need to do?" Ulûrk groaned, recognising Zhatren's voice.

"Simply cross the Ephel Dúath. Enter the Haunted City. For Minas Morgul has some of the greatest menace you will ever find. Enter, and you are officially part of Sauron's army. Turn back, and you are weak, and He shall find some lowly job for you."

"That is all for today. Tomorrow, meet me outside as you would normally meet your captain. We will march southwest, (and see if you know how to march). Use the rest of today to do anything you need to do before the War – say goodbyes, pack up, or anything else that is urgent and cannot be done before your return. You are dismissed."

Ulûrk hastily got up and left, before Zhatren could find him. He sighed and started the long walk home, realising that these could well be his last hours in Garkhôn.

_No,_ Ulûrk reprimanded himself, _don't ya think that way. Yer not gonna die in the war._

He just hoped that all his fellow trainees could survive too.


	27. Chapter 27

**XXVII**

**Burk**

Burk rode swiftly to Gortog's Wargs, and found it without difficulty. He pushed the door open and entered the musty stable. There was one orc there, old and wrinkled, frantically sorting papers the table, a quarter-full jug of ale laying by his chair.

"Are ya Gortog?" Burk asked.

"Yes, 'fraid so. Just me an' my ole wargs runnin' this 'ere place now."

"Where'd your employees go?" Burk asked.

"Away," he replied sadly, pausing to take another draught of ale. "Some off ta the wars, some off on missions fer the Eye. And here I am all alone. I'm thinkin' of closin' this store, 'cause everyone seems ta like the downtown one better, anyways."

"Well, can I return a warg here?" Burk asked.

"Yeah, ya can. The one ya were ridin' up on?"

"That's right."

"How ya gonna get home, eh?" Gortog asked in confusion.

"I can walk," Burk replied. "It'll get me in shape for the army, where ya gotta do a lot of marching."

"Fer the army, eh? Ya joinin' it too?"

"I've already joined. It's just that I was off 'on missions for the Eye', like ya said."

"Oh, yeah. What were ya doin'?"

"We headed off ta Alzág, in Dorezátz, ta get the city ta pay its taxes. Course they didn't, so all we ended up with was a sick companion. I hope he's all right."

"Same 'ere, though I don't know his name."

"His name was Morrick, and he's the one who rented the five wargs for our mission."

To Burk's surprise, Gortog's face suddenly changed. "Oh!" he cried. "Ya were on that mission. Was there an orc named Sheglock with ya?"

"Yes. You know him?"

"Course I do!" Gortog replied. "'E used ta work 'ere! D'ya know what's become o' 'im?"

"He's off to Barad-dûr, ta try and find a cure for his brother. That's a week ago – no, more – now. He's probably in the great Tower. Maybe I'll meet him."

"Yer goin' ta Barad-dûr?"

"For the war."

"Alright. Well, I've got ya marked off fer returning the one orc. And I hope the others, and their riders, make it back safely soon."

"'Kay, nice talking to ya," Burk said as he headed for the door. Gortog grunted and returned inside, and Burk started down the long dirt road back to town.

It was an hour before he arrived at the barracks, but Largg was not there. Burk looked around for a while, but his friend seemed to have not yet arrived. Finally, after ten minutes of waiting, he shrugged and went inside.

"Burk here, reporting for duty," he told the captain at the front desk. He got up and walked over to him.

"Burk, that right?" he asked. Burk nodded. "You're in the thirty-eighth infantry?" He nodded again. "Your squadron is going to Osgiliath. Understood?"

"Yessir."

"Good. We'll get you in a group of orcs that are also going there. And it's fastest to go around north, through the gate, then south, rather than over the mountains. Safer, too. We will have you ready to march in a few hours."

Burk was surprised. "A few hours?" Sauron must really feel the need for haste. Normally he was given a day, at least.

"Yes," the captain answered. "Sauron desires to strike soon, very soon. Just half an hour ago we sent another company marching up to the Morannon."

"But I wanted to meet a friend, before I went off to war," Burk explained. "I told him to meet me here."

"Ah – so _you're_ the friend. Yes, an orc named Largg made a similar request, before being sent off north."

"Sir!" Burk cried in despair, "With your leave, may I run to catch up with them?"

"No," he answered stoically. "The army is built on order, and marching to a beat is orderly. Running madly is undignified and unacceptable."

Burk lowered his head, realising that he might never see Largg again. Their time together had been so short. They had just met at the plaza, as they were assigned their mission. But they had grown close, and the entire group had. Especially at Kâlask's, when Morrick had been ill. But now they were all split up, scattered across Mordor. Burk sighed, then raised his head and looked up toward the captain.

"I'm sorry," he said, not sounding at all apologetic. "But rules are made for a reason."

Burk left and retreated to a corner of the building, where he uncharacteristically brooded a while. He dearly hoped that Largg made it through the war, and they got back together. But in all wars, he knew, even if the odds were entirely in your favour, there was a chance that you would die. There were always deaths, on both sides. Burk just hoped his friend wouldn't be one of them.

After what seemed ages, he was finally called up. "Private Burk, step forward!"

Burk stepped up and saluted the officer in front of him. Then he went and stood by the others who had been called. The officer called several more names, then addressed them.

"I am Officer Duérkon, and will be leading you to the Morannon, and then south to Osgiliath," he announced to the fifty or so soldiers gathered around him. "Everyone outside!" he ordered, and they filed out the door.

"Now," Officer Duérkon ordered, "into formation."

They quickly got into a formation of about sixteen rows, three abreast. Burk noticed, as well as did Officer Duérkon, that they were facing the wrong direction.

"About– face!" Officer Duérkon cried, and they all turned around. Burk found himself in the second row.

"Okay– march!" They began to march off. Officer Duérkon called out the steps for a while, until they all caught on to the pace. "One, two, one, two…"

Eventually Burk allowed instinct to take over, and his legs, like machines, dutifully marched to the rhythm.

They marched northwest, heading almost straight for Orodruin. As they drew nearer, they saw that the mountain was giving off a great dark vapour, like in manner to that rising from Barad-dûr.

"The art of Sauron can command the very mountains," Officer Duérkon said softly as they neared it. Rauising his voice, he announced, "There is a camp just ahead."

They reached it in twenty minutes, a small cluster of tents. "And– halt!" Officer Duérkon cried out. Instantly the soldiers froze.

"Break formation!" he cried. "We rest here. Tomorrow we shall see if we can make it to the Black Gate."

Burk, exhausted from the long march, lay down on the cool stone and fell instantly to sleep.

The next day he was woken by Officer Duérkon, who called out for them to rise. It was still dark all around. He passed out their rations and gave them ten minutes, which was not nearly enough time for Burk (who had brought, even though it was against the rules, extra food). He finished his meagre rations and a small portion of his own, but too soon they were commanded to begin marching.

The marched several hours, but the sky did not lighten. It remained a bleak, dull grey, and the sun was nowhere to be seen. When they paused again, many in the company were feeling down, as the storm brooded over them like a great cloud of ill omen.

"Don't despair!" Officer Duérkon commanded, seeing the soldiers lose hope. "This is no storm, but the art of Sauron, meant to dishearten our foes. Do not let it do the same to you!"

Burk sighed and looked East, where he could see a small glimmer of sunlight far beyond Barad-dûr, over what was probably part of Dorezátz. Seeing the great Tower, and thinking of Dorezátz, he wondered how Sheglock and Morrick were doing. Well, he could always see them after the war, he supposed.

They marched on again, long into the endless night. Burk lost track of time, as day was no different than night, save, perhaps, that the day was more grey and hazy, whereas the night was pure black. Neither sun nor moon nor stars could pierce the great shadow, and beneath it time itself seemed to stop.

At long last they reached the Morannon, and the main gate to Mordor. Tall and strong it rose, to a height of many yards. Of iron Burk guessed it was wrought, though how it had been constructed, he had no idea. It was shut fast, and Officer Duérkon had them halt before it and join the large camp already there.

"Sauron only opens his gate when a sufficient number of orcs need passage," Officer Duérkon explained. "He just let a large force through yesterday, or so I hear. It may be several more days before we are let through."

Burk, with sudden hope, realised that Largg may have been detained with him. He eagerly asked around. To his surprise, a stranger approached him on the matter.

"I heard you were asking for Largg? Are you Burk?"

"Yes," he answered hesitantly.

"Largg left yesterday, but he left a note for you. I was told you would arrive soon." He handed Burk a letter.

Burk thanked him, disappointed that he could not meet his friend in person. However, it was a great consolation to hear from him. He opened the letter (which had a good many spelling errors), read it, and smiled.

_Deer Burk,_

_I am so soree we mised each uther back at the barax. When i arived thay wer alreadee leeving. Now i am at the black gait. It is opining in a few minitz, and i will leeve Mordor. I wish yoo luck and that we both reeturn safe from the war and maybe geting to gether some time later. Luv, Largg._

Burk smiled. Largg wasn't the most literate orc in the world, but at least he had tried. It was the attempt that showed Burk how much his friend cared. He smiled, tucking the letter into his pocket, so that, if Largg didn't make it, he would have something to remember him by. And if Largg did survive, well, then he would have something to tease his friend about.


	28. Chapter 28

**XXVIII**

**Largg**

Largg arrived early to the barracks, and Burk had not yet arrived. He waited a while, but remembered how far off the store, Gortog's Wargs, was. It would take Burk another half-hour, at least, to get here. He decided to go inside and check in.

He pushed open the door and found a large company already gathered around one of the officers. The officer looked over as the door opened, and spotted Largg. "Hey, you a soldier? Cause if you are, head on over here."

Largg went over to him. "I'm Largg, sir," he said.

"Good. You're going with us. We'll need more orcs."

"Okay, sir," Largg said. What's the mission?"

"I was just telling these folk. Ask anyone as we march. But we have to go, right now."

"Wait – I'm gonna be meetin' a friend in half an hour."

The orc who had been at the desk got up and walked over to him. "You have to leave now, officer Kerzaque.

The officer shrugged. "Okay, Largg, your with the next company, then."

"What's this," the captain asked. "No one gets to wait! Kerzaque, don't you need more grunts to assault Faramir?"

"Yes, but you're waiting for someone, right, Largg?"

"Yessir. I promised ta meet him here."

The captain glared. "You'll have to break that promise. Or my orders. And I order you to leave, now."

Largg groaned. He was in a tight spot. But he couldn't directly disobey an order from a superior officer. He would have to leave, and hope that he could meet Burk later. After the war, maybe, they could get together.

"Sir, may I leave a note?" he asked the captain.

"No," was the harsh reply. "If he mentions you, I'll tell him. Now, get marching!"

Officer Kerzaque took his forty soldiers outside. "Ten rows of four," he commanded, and the soldiers made the formation. "Alright, good! Now let's go!"

They marched off, Largg mournfully looking over his shoulder toward the barracks.

"Hey, Largg, was it," the orc to his right asked when they had set off. "Hi, I'm Têrk. Did I hear that you need a debriefing?"

"Yeah, thanks," Largg replied. "What's gonna be our mission?"

"Well, you know, there's trouble just west o' the mountains. Captain Faramir is assaulting the Men of Harad as they make their way north to the gate. We're going to Ithilien, starting north, and travelling south until we find Faramir and his Men. We are to attack them, or discover their hideout, I guess. Anyway, we gotta march all the way there, first. It's gonna take a couple o' days."

It did take several days before they reached the Black Gate. They marched quickly, and made it by sunset to the Morannon, and a great cloud hung over Orodruin to the southeast. Largg stared at it in apprehension. It seemed as though the fiery mountain was preparing to erupt.

"Does Moun' Doom always smoke like that?" he asked Têrk.

"Nah, that's Sauron's smoke. I think that He's using it in the war."

"Oh," Largg said. "Looks depressin'."

"I think that's the point," Têrk answered.

There was already a large camp at the Gate when they arrived. Officer Kerzaque took his group over to one of the two Towers of the Teeth on either side of the massive gate. He approached one of the guards here.

"Are we opening the gate soon?"

"Yes," the guard relied. "In just a few hours."

"Good," officer Kerzaque said. "We're in a hurry."

When they had left, Largg nudged his new companion. "Does it only open at certain times?" he asked Têrk.

"I think so. Only when there're enough people."

Largg sighed in despair. He had arrived at the worst possible time. He would get through, and Burk would be left behind.

"What's the matter?" Têrk asked.

"My friend. I was hopin' ta see him before I went out ta the war."

"Write him a letter, and drop it with a guard," Têrk suggested. Largg thanked him – it was a great idea. Unfortunately, however, he had neither paper nor ink.

"Do ya got paper?" Largg asked.

"Nah – ask a guard. Offer to pay, if you have money to spare."

Largg did as he said, and asked one of the nearby guards. The guard was glad to supply paper, as well as ink and a table. He led Largg inside the tower, and brought the supplies. Têrk followed him into the tower.

The guard smiled at Largg. "Here ya go, write as much's ya want. I know the war's hard fer all o' ya fightin' folk."

Largg thanked him, then dipped the pen in the ink and began to write. Eventually he stopped, foiled. He looked up at Têrk.

"How do ya spell 'barracks'?" he asked.

Têrk shrugged. "Heck – I don't know. Sound it out."

Largg shrugged as well. He had only had a year of schooling, and hadn't done very well. At least he knew how to write. He finished the letter, signed his name (even adding "love" before it – he hoped Burk wouldn't take it the wrong way). The guard even offered to deliver the letter for him when Burk arrived. He thanked the guard again.

"No problem. But they're openin' the Gate in a few minutes. Ya betta be off."

"Thanks!" Largg cried a third time. He and Têrk went outside and rejoined their company.

"Where you guys been?" Officer Kerzaque asked. "Never mind, you're here now. They're opening the gate now. Everyone, into your formation!"

They returned to their formation, the officer in front, facing the gate. Then, slowly, it began to open. The great arms of the gate swung outward, opening out into the great battle plain. Dull and colourless it looked, the wreck of the battles long ago. Largg stared out in amazement.

Laid before him, beyond Dargolad, were the vast marshes. He could see the mountains that he vaguely recalled were called something like the Emyn Muil, and to their left the vague outline of the Great River. Many of the landmarks of the West, and much that he had heard of, but never seen, was before him.

They marched forward, and as they crossed through the gate Largg realised with a shock that it was the first time he had ever been outside of Mordor. He looked around the barren plain, with mounds of slag piled high all about. So far, the West did not make a very good first impression on him.

The companies of soldiers all marched through the Gate. Eventually everyone had passed through. It closed slowly, clanging with an ominous clunk. It seemed to Largg that it had just severed him entirely from his old life, Mordor, Burk, and his parents were all inside, and he had been locked out.

Largg sighed, then turned and began marching south, Têrk at his side, into his new life.


	29. Chapter 29

**XXIX**

**Ulûrk**

Ulûrk rose well before dawn, to be sure that he could make it to the training camp on time. He grabbed his coat, bow, sword, and his pack. Then he looked around the house, to see if he had forgotten anything. Once he left, he would not return until the end of the war. He sighed, grabbed a pen and some ink, and scrawled a hasty note ("Off to war — be right back") to any visitors, and set it on the front-room table. Then he grabbed his walking stick, and, bow in his right hand, stick in his left, he started out the door. He kicked it shut behind him, not bothering to lock it, for Garkhôn, being so close to Barad-dûr, was fairly safe. He sighed, took one last look at his home, then turned away and marched off through the night.

When he arrived the sun was just beginning to rise over Dorezátz. Ulûrk sighed, remembering that day, so long ago it seemed now, when Sheglock had commented on the sunrise. That was when the stupid thief had had his arms cut off for his theft. Ulûrk realised, with a start, that he had still been a smith back then. And Sheglock and Morrick had not yet gone of on their mission.

"So, Mr. Smith, eager to prove yourself, aren't you?" Ulûrk looked up, pulled from his own thoughts, and noticed, shocked and annoyed, that Captain Khentz was standing right before him. "You're up early," the captain went on. "Did you forget what morning is?"

"No, sir," Ulûrk replied, avoiding prolonged conversation.

"I'm surprised at you, Mr. Smith," the captain went on, nonchalantly adding, as one commenting on the weather, "No friends you need to say goodbye to?"

Ulûrk was furious. That was out of bounds! He thought of Sheglock, and Morrick, and everyone else he knew that he might never see again. How dared this son of a Man to come up and casually speak about his personal life! Ulûrk, without thinking, quickly retorted, forgetting everything about his rank and propriety.

"I don't see you with any friends, either!" he pointed out. Ulûrk knew he had scored a point when Khentz furiously glared.

"That, Mr. Smith, is the difference between a secure adult and an insecure child. Clearly, you have issues with your temper. I regret that I shall not be there when you take the test. I've no doubt you will come running right back to Sir Dalscez, bawling like an infant. Why don't you show everyone the baby you really are?"

Ulûrk tried his hardest to ignore him and leave. He stamped off toward the complex, hearing Khentz's gloating voice. "The baby's having a temper tantrum – _wahh_, _waaahhhhh_." He tried the door, which was locked.

"You got amnesia too, Mr. Smith? Remember, you're meeting on the field today. Or do you not know what a _field_ is? Let me show you."

Ulûrk turned and trudged to the other side of the buildings, allowing them to shield him from the evil captain. He heard Captain Khentz's harsh laughter.

For several minutes he stayed there and tried to vent his anger. With his knife he drew a picture of the captain in the dirt, then stabbed it viciously, wishing that he knew the art of voodoo. Finally he stopped, as it was damaging his knife, and not really helping him release his anger. He heard some other cadets walk up.

"You can wait here, but don't go to the back. Baby Ulûrk's having a tantrum."

Ulûrk groaned and stomped his foot in the effigy's face. Just then Zhatren rounded the corner. Ulûrk groaned again, and mentally cursed just about everything and everyone that came to his head, for his ill luck today.

"I'm so sorry the captain's a jerk you know that do you feel okay?"

"Fine," Ulûrk lied.

"You sure you don't look fine I mean I think you're upset and Khentz has been calling you names I mean we all heard it and it's not nice I mean it's unfair and I feel really bad and I want to help cause you're my friend I mean are we friends I hope oh golly are you okay say something why aren't you saying anything oh no something's really wrong!"

_I never said anything because you never gave me a chance to,_ Ulûrk felt like replying, but didn't want to hurt Zhatren's feelings just because the captain had hurt him. After all, the kid, unlike the captain, wasn't _trying_ to annoy Ulûrk. Though, of course, he still was doing it most expertly.

"Why don't we go back ta the field," Ulûrk suggested.

Zhatren got up (he had sat himself on the ground in front of Ulûrk during his tirade) and they headed back to the field. Sir Dalscez was there, so Khentz said nothing publicly, but did whisper to Ulûrk as he passed. "Baby's found a widdle fwiend. Aww, how cwute!" Ulûrk glared at him with loathing, then joined the company. Zhatren looked up at Ulûrk in concern, but did not speak, as Sir Dalscez had just begun speaking.

"The march to Cirith Ungol will take several days, so you will be able to get a lot of practice at marching. Remember, though, that until you pass the gates of the city of Minas Morgul, you are not officially Sauron's soldiers. Do no think that you are marching to war. If you fail the test, you may well be sent home, if you are still alive. Now, into formation!"

They hesitated a while, but eventually figured it out.

"Now," Sir Dalscez announced, "this will be your formation whenever we march. Memorise who is on your right and left, in front of you and behind you." Ulûrk looked around, and groaned silently in his mind, as Zhatren had followed him, and was directly to his right. There was no one to his left, as he was at the edge of his row. The orc in front of him was large and buff, but Ulûrk didn't know his name.

They began marching, and Captain Khentz called a few mocking farewells to several of the cadets, Ulûrk included. Once they were on the road, Zhatren turned and immediately started talking.

"I think we're supposed to march silently," Ulûrk told him quietly, hoping that the rule would be enforced. It seemed naught would keep his loquacious companion quiet.

"Well we can whisper can't we I mean I'm so excited this is gonna be so fun no not fun I mean _thrilling_."

"Quiet back there," Sir Dalscez ordered, to Ulûrk's immense relief. Zhatren pouted.

They made it well out of the town that day, and already the Ephel Dúath loomed much closer than it had before. Partly due to this, the sun seemed to sink over the mountaintops far sooner than it usually did. Sir Dalscez called a halt.

"Okay, we have just crossed into Erranór, and we are a little over a quarter of the way there. Once we reach the mountains, we will turn left and follow them south to our destination. I will wake you when we begin our next march, though it may still be dark. The storm of Sauron is coming."

As he said this, Ulûrk looked north toward Barad-dûr, and saw the great cloud, made red by the last light of the setting sun. It glowed as though on fire.

It was indeed dark when Sir Dalscez woke them, though it was the dark of night, not the unnatural dark of the great smoke. They marched for many ours, and, as the sun rose, Ulûrk noticed the edge of the cloud was right above them. It seemed to follow them, as they marched southward, keeping them in as perpetual twilight. Eventually the wind picked up, blowing on their backs, and the cloud jumped forward. They were cast into shadow.

The next day was all dark, the dull grey sky oppressive and disheartening. But, as Sir Dalscez was watching closely, they kept their talk light at breaks. Still, inside, Ulûrk felt a heavy load settle on him, hanging over him like an invisible, personal rain cloud; a smaller version of the vast one above him.

By morning of the fourth day (or at least Ulûrk assumed it was morning, as they had risen just two hours ago, though there was no way to tell), they arrived at the tower. As Sir Dalscez marched them past the gate, bells rang from the tower. Sir Dalscez turned his company, and they marched up to the gate.

An orc came running out of the tower and stopped before them. "Oi, I'm Shagrat, the captain here. Now, what might you be off to? This road doesn't lead anywhere but up to Her Ladyship. The armies are supposed to be marching north to the Gate. This is no way into Minas Morgul!"

"Yet I'm sending them there, by this pass," Sir Dalscez answered. "They're training to be soldiers. This is their test."

"Test? You mad or something?" Shagrat asked. "Odds are that Shelob'll get at least one of them. I doubt Sauron allowed you to come here to do murder."

"They'll be safe, at least if we throw a prisoner in first. It's the fear that I need them to experience, not actual danger. Now, don't tell me that there are no prisoners in your tower."

"Certainly there are, but you can't come stealing them from us. They're good for sport."

"Sport!" Sir Dalscez cried. "I heard rumours that the orcs of Erranór were crueller, and now I see the truth in them. Sport! Is that all you care about?"

"Not me, personally, but I won't deny those rumours. My lads are the ones who like sport. And I need something to hold them to me, if you get my drift. Cause in Erranór the army's a little less solid than in Gorgoroth."

"But you must have someone to spare."

"To throw off to Her Ladyship?" Shagrat asked. "I hardly see the point."

"You're the one who first brought it up," Sir Dalscez reminded him. "So that this is a test, not an execution of my trainees."

"Right, I'll give you one of the more boring ones," Shagrat promised, and turned to leave. In ten minutes he returned with a prisoner, a Man, handcuffed and gagged.

"It'll do," Sir Dalscez said, surveying the Man.

Ulûrk also looked at him. He had white skin, though his face was covered with dirt and blood. His hair was brown, but tidy and unkempt. His clothes were ripped and torn.

"Enough fat still on this one to keep Her Ladyship busy a while," Shagrat pointed out. "It's fairly new, just came from Minas Morgul, it was captured from Faramir's group."

"Thank you, captain," Sir Dalscez said, taking the limp prisoner. "Walk!" he ordered.

"It doesn't know our tongue," Shagrat explained. "Don't you, fatty?" he asked the Man, who didn't respond. "See? Use the whip to communicate."

"Or the Tongue of the West," Sir Dalscez said. Shagrat laughed.

"Feeling pity for a Man? You Gorgoroth orcs amaze us sometimes! What's it matter, we both know that Men aren't real people, like orcs!"

"They may be like animals, but I don't whip even a horse unnecessarily," Sir Dalscez explained. "Plus, I haven't a whip on me."

"Very well then," Shagrat laughed, "do as you wish."

Sir Dalscez thanked him again, then ordered them to march on. As the group of cadets left, they distinctly heard Shagrat mutter "Darn waste of good meat!"

Sir Dalscez led the prisoner, and they marched straight up to the mountains. They followed a curvy path that led up the cliff-like Ephel Dúath, eventually ending in a cave entrance. Sir Dalscez paused.

"In," he ordered in the Common Tongue, pointing his sword at the prisoner. Most likely in eagerness to escape the orcs, he vanished quickly into the gloom. Sir Dalscez turned to the group.

"Now is the test, to pass through this tunnel and make it to Minas Morgul. You will pass through one at a time, in ten minute intervals. When you exit the tunnel, you should find a stair. Travel down this, then into the city. The moment you enter the gates of the Dead City, you have proven your courage and strength of mind, and will be accepted into Sauron's army! Who shall be first?"

No one volunteered, unsurprisingly, for there was an unwholesome feel to the tunnel. Sir Dalscez had them go by their position in the formation. Ulûrk groaned – he was near the front.

Slowly the soldiers in front of him passed into the gloom. As the number ahead of Ulûrk and Zhatren grew fewer, the latter started muttering incoherently. "Oh gosh I'm gonna fail" Ulûrk caught many times. Eventually Zhatren's time came, and he nervously got up and walked in. Ulûrk was next.

Those ten minutes seemed to go by excessively fast. Already Sir Dalscez was telling him to go. Ulûrk got up and hobbled to the tunnel entrance. His legs seemed to have forgotten how to function properly, and did not obey his brain.

He made it to the mouth of the cave, and a horrid stench hit him. He reeled, plugged his nose, and plunged inward.

The tunnel was utterly dark, blacker than the blackest night. Ulûrk could not stand to look forward. He looked behind, seeing the small hole of light that was the entrance. He sighed, unable to take his eyes from it. At least, seeing it get smaller, he knew he was moving. He pulled his gaze at last from it, setting his eyes ahead, peering through the impenetrable darkness. He closed his eyes. It made no difference.

Ulûrk went on, though he could not see anything in either direction. He seemed caught in an endless pit of darkness. He yelled, his voice muted. He ran forward, stumbled, and fell on the hard stone. Something brushed by him.

Starting, Ulûrk numbed up and felt around. He found that the ceiling was covered in a sticky moss-like substance. It seemed harmless enough, so he ignored it.

With a sudden jolt, Ulûrk realised he was disoriented. He had no idea which way he had been going. He had fallen, then gotten up and searched for the thing that had brushed by him. Now he had no idea which way was forward. He tried not to panic.

Straining his ears for any sound indicating which way he should travel, Ulûrk heard an almost imperceptible, intermittent noise ahead of him. He started running in the direction he had been facing. As he drew neared, he realised someone was crying, the sound strangely echoed be the tunnel.

"Yer fine," he said aloud, trying not to step on the orc, who he couldn't see.

"No I'm not I – failed and they'll – kick me out of the army and – send me home," he answered between sobs.

"Zhatren?" Ulûrk asked. "It's me, Ulûrk."

"Ulûrk I'm – happy you're here but – I feel so alone and it's all – dark and I want out – and I feel like I'm gonna – die here!"

"Up ya get, buddy," Ulûrk said, finding his arm and helping him upright. "Now, c'mon, ya lean on me, and we'll get ta the end of this tunnel."

Zhatren, for once, did not speak, but the sobs became less frequent, and less noisy. Ulûrk dragged the kid to his feet, and dragged him away from the sludge-covered tunnel wall.

He half carried Zhatren, who seemed too weak to move, forward. He would only have to hope they were going in the right way. Minutes passed by, though they felt like hours. Neither Ulûrk nor (to Ulûrk's surprise and worry) Zhatren said anything. The darkness stretched on.

At long last Ulûrk thought he perceived a light ahead of him. He waved his free hand in front of his face. He was dimly able to see it!

"C'mon," he said to Zhatren, beginning to run. "We're almost there!"

Zhatren seemed to find hope again, and sped up, running by his own will. Ulûrk let go of him, and, together, the two orcs sped toward the light. They burst out the end of the tunnel, and Ulûrk collapsed against the cliff wall.


	30. Chapter 30

**XXX**

**Largg**

They marched southward a while, passing through the desolate land, which consisted of mainly a strange, chalky white rock that covered the terrain. This produced a lot of dust as they marched, their firm steps disrupting the flaky ground, and sending particles of it flying into the midst of their company. It irritated Largg's lungs, and he coughed, trying unsuccessfully to shield his mouth while still keeping pace.

Eventually the gray sky darkened to a pure black, and Officer Kerzaque called a halt. They were near the borders of the woods, and a few trees grew amidst the stony, broken land. They travelled slightly off the road to the left, on the side of the road closer to the Ephel Dúath.

"We're not in Mordor anymore," Officer Kerzaque reminded them. "And we no longer have the protection of Sauron. It is possible even that our quarry, Captain Faramir, will find us, and attack us as we rest, unawares. We need to set a watch."

He selected ten orcs for the watch: two per shift for five shifts. Largg was not one of them, so he settled in a corner and quickly fell asleep.

Nothing happened that night, and the officer woke them in the morning, which was dark. The sun did not penetrate the darkness, and beneath the gloomy cloud they entered Ithilien. As they travelled south the road became more and more uneven, and after six leagues or so, all signs of Sauron's craft vanished. The road was overgrown and often blocked by some shrub or bush pushing its way into their path. These were numerous and they snagged the clothes of the soldiers. The orcs hewed them out of the way when they could, but they, and the numerous other weeds and grasses, slowed the group's pace.

The road ran straight, carved, Largg assumed, by ancient Men of long ago, from Old Gondor, perhaps. They followed it relentlessly that day, passing many groves of trees, and crossing several streams by ancient bridges that must have been built long before.

That night they set a watch again, and Largg was assigned third shift. However, he was woken by the second-shift watcher long before his time arrived. Someone had been sighted running toward them.

"A Man, by the looks – and smell," the watch-orc reported. The others stared south down the road, and saw a tiny figure running toward them.

"Should I shoot?" asked one of the orcs in their company, taking up his bow and an arrow, and drawing it back. Officer Kerzaque hesitated.

"No. He may be on our side. And it is only one Man."

"But, sir," said the orc with the bow, "he may be a spy of Faramir's; and if he is, sir, he'll bring more Men in our direction."

"Pugrek, don't shoot!" commanded Officer Kerzaque. "I can see his face, and his skin is dark. He must be one of the Haradrim, coming to aid us!"

"Yessir," Pugrek said, seemingly disgruntled, laying down his bow. Officer Kerzaque stepped forward.

"Who passes through Ithilien? Friend or foe to the Great Eye?"

"Friend," he gasped, sprinting the last way and collapsing in front of the captain. He then righted himself, and went on. "I is Zierdasch, comes from far South, land they calls in North, Harad. Tongue of Mordor I speaks not well. Tongue of West not at all."

"Well, tell us, if you can, what happened to you." Officer Kerzaque commanded.

"What happens to me? I is ambushed, by Gondor Men. Me company all is die and hurt. Great Mûmak we has too. On him I rides in war-structure. Gondor Men out comes from trees and attacks. Fights we much, but they is fierce and strong. Defeats us. Then Mûmak is wounds and I is throws off. Runs I do, and not spots by Gondor arrow-Men that hides in trees. Arrows flies every where. I runs and more runs and escapes."

Largg understood a little of the dark man's rapid speech, though it was difficult to understand, as he spoke with an accent, and his grammar was all wrong. The officer, however, seemed to catch most of it, and followed it with another question.

"And when were you attacked, friend Zierdasch?" he asked.

"Wants you to knows times of attack by Gondor Men, captain-orc?" Zierdasch asked for clarification.

"Yes," Officer Kerzaque replied.

"I will tells you. Is last day, just few hours before now."

"Then Faramir is just north!" Officer Kerzaque cried. "Thank you, Zierdasch! Come, orcs, let's find him. We shall catch the Men of Gondor when they least expect it!"

Zierdasch muttered a reply in his own tongue, then bowed low before the officer. Then he switched back to his broken Mordor-Tongue. "Me goes now to parts from you kind friends. Thanks you much for chases evil Gondor Men. I goes to Eye to give services, even although I is last of me company still lives. Fare well!"

"And you fare well also," Officer Kerzaque said. "Take some food before you go, and head straight north to the Morannon, where you can wait in the towers on the side, until the Gate opens. May the grace of the Lord Sauron follow you."

They gave him some salted meat, and he thanked them. Then he set off north, and they continued south to try and find Faramir.

"He'll have scouts," Officer Kerzaque warned them. "Do not go too far, and stay out of their sight. They must be convinced that Sauron has no troops in these parts."

They searched a while, and eventually one of the orcs reported seeing a Man spying from the trees. "I came up to a stream, and felt someone watching. So I dived behind the rocks. I peered out, and saw him, staring off right past me. He didn't see me, though."

"Good job, Ugean," the officer said. "Okay, guys, he is in this area. We should hide now and stay still. Tonight they're going to be on their guard. To-morrow night we strike."

They found a dense cluster of trees on the side of the road closest to Mordor. Here they spent the rest of the night, and the next day. During this time Largg was feeling restless. Nothing happened, and the long monotonous hours seemed to stretch on, each one even longer and more tedious than the last. Officer Kerzaque discouraged talking, or much movement, as he feared that it would alert Faramir to their presence. So Largg just stared gloomily through the trees for most of the day.

That evening it grew very busy in the army camp. Officer Kerzaque gathered all the orcs together, and checked everyone's weapons. Then he addressed them.

"Now is your first battle. Faramir's Men are just through these trees. Search in groups of ten, and shout if you find them (unless they don't see you). Then, when you hear a shout, head immediately toward it. There are not too many of them – we should at least harm them, and maybe persuade them to stop attacking our comrades from Harad. Okay, get going!"

He did not get moving quite that fast. First he assigned the groups, based on their rows in the formation, then he assigned each group a leader. The officer himself led one. He gave each of the leaders a rough area to search.

"Here we go, then," Têrk said to Largg as the superiors bustled around, shouting orders.

"Yeah. But its only gonna be a skirmish, I think," Largg replied. He had been in some minor battles before. "Ya nervous?"

"Yes," Têrk sighed. "It's gonna be my first ever battle. I don't know how I'll do. I might just freak out and go nuts."

Largg smacked him lightly on the shoulder. "Yer tough," he said. "Yer not gonna go nuts."

Têrk smiled. "Thanks for the confidence ya got in me, even though ya haven't known me more than a few days. But that gotta be the reason ya assume I'll be fine. Ya didn't know about the first time I did training, and we used the fake swords."

"What happened ta ya?" Largg asked.

"I totally freaked out when my opponent came at me. I cringed, dropped my sword, and fell over backward. Then Captain Khentz glared down at me and said, 'You know, Turkey, you shouldn't have joined the army if you can't even face a wooden sword.' He used to always call me 'turkey' and crap like that. I turned so red and was blushing real bad when I go back up."

Largg sighed. He, too, had trained under the captain. Every soldier from Garkhôn must have done so. And it seemed that Khentz had been as nice to Têrk as he had been to Largg. Maybe even a little meaner, as Largg's nickname (Log) hadn't been as insulting.

"Sorry, lad. But Khentz is the son of a Man. We both know that. Yer not gonna do that again. Ya didn't train fer nuthin'."

Têrk shrugged. "I ain't never been in a real fight. Ya don't know."

Before Largg could reply, Officer Kerzaque approached the leader of their company.

"Kôzrin, it's time to go."

"Yessir," Kôzrin replied, saluting the officer. He turned to his group of ten orcs.

"Ya guys ready ta roll?" he asked.

A large cheer of "Yeah!" came from the crowd. Têrk, Largg noticed, did not join in. he was looking toward the ground.

"Let's get some _Man_ fer dinner tonight!" Kôzrin cried. "C'mon, boys! Let's get 'em!"

"Yer gonna do real great," Largg said to Têrk, who was thoroughly unenthusiastic.

Têrk bit his lip in concentration. "We're gonna find out," he said through gritted teeth.


	31. Chapter 31

**XXXI**

**Zhatren**

Zhatren nervously passed into the dark, gloomy tunnel, and instantly fear took hold of him. He tried to fight it, remembering what Sir Dalscez had said. He forced himself onward, arms straight ahead, groping forward. He stumbled on the cracked ground. His eyes saw nothing in the darkness ahead.

After what seemed a long time, Zhatren allowed himself to look back. The opening was barely a hundred yards behind him. Zhatren felt disheartened, as he had hardly travelled forward. He sighed, staring wistfully toward the light.

Then he sensed, or thought he sensed, something behind him. He spun around, eyes straining to see. But he could see nothing, as his eyes were not accustomed to the blackness, especially after their prolonged contact with the light from the tunnel entrance.

Zhatren shivered, feeling very exposed. He stumbled over to the wall and set his back to it. Then he crept along as speedily as he could, fear steadily increasing. Crablike he shuffled sideways along the rocky side of the tunnel.

Suddenly the wall disappeared behind him. With a yell, Zhatren fell backward into the abyss. His yell was muted, and Zhatren felt his heart nearly stop.

He lay there, stunned, waiting for some monster to come and kill him. The stench in the room was horrid, and he felt a malicious force surrounding him.

Eventually, as nothing happened, he got up. It seemed he had fallen into some sort of side tunnel. His back hurt where he had landed on it, but he hadn't broken anything.

Feeling suddenly as though there was some beast behind him, Zhatren hastened to the wall. At least the monster would have to approach him from the front. Though, as he could see nothing, it was likely that a straightforward attack would seem as sudden as a sneak one. Zhatren shivered, goose-bumps pricking along his arms and legs.

Abruptly, and without warning, something fell from the ceiling and landed on his face, and Zhatren screamed, his heart almost stopping again. It was only some sort of sticky plant.

He shrugged it off, sighed, panting, as his heart raced. The suspense was unbearable. The darkness was complete. Zhatren stared around wildly, unable to discern anything. He was alone. Entirely alone.

Slowly Zhatren realised just how alone he really was. He had no one. His parents he had left at home. Ulûrk he had left behind at the horrible tunnel entrance. He was alone, lost in a maze of darkness, the plaything of some monster, just waiting for death.

Zhatren began to cry. He tried to check the tears, but could not. The fear was overwhelming, and he sobbed hard, thinking of his mother, of his house, of all that he had left to join the army. Nothing in his fifteen years of experience had prepared him for this.

"Mommy!" he cried, not caring any more that he sounded like he was two. "Daddy, I miss you both and all my friends and everyone I don't know if I'll ever get out of here oh gosh why did I join the army why?"

He paused for a second to wipe his eyes, and hiccupped. The sound was muffled and echoed in a strange, ominous way. Zhatren couldn't take the feeling that something was lurking, just out of sight, waiting for him.

"Just end it already!" he screamed. "Eat me eat me I really don't care just kill me hurt me anything I can't take it you win all right you win just eat me… eat me…"

He pounded his fist on the ground, eyes red and swollen, still muttering "eat me", while gradually his pleas faded into soft, yet racking sobs that echoed throughout the tunnel for all the world to hear.

The monster seemed to heed his pleas, for Zhatren soon heard someone, or something, approaching. He got up halfway, craning his neck, but could see nothing ahead. His heart started beating wildly again, terror overcoming his despair for the moment.

"Yer fine," Ulûrk's voice came from out of the darkness, and Zhatren felt an immense sense of relief wash over him. He was not going to die after all! He was no longer alone.

But now that the terror had ended, the despair washed back over him like a wave of the horrid reek from the gaping chasm behind him. He realised that he had failed the test!

Tears welled in his eye again, as his other swirling emotions took over, filling the hole that the panic had left behind. He could imagine Captain Khentz's evil, triumphant laugh.

"I knew you were a failure, squirt." He felt as though the captain's voice was actually whispering into his ear, and he feared that he was going insane. Overwhelmed, he leaned against Ulûrk.

"No I'm not I," he started, responding to Ulûrk's earlier assertion that he was fine, but interrupted by a hiccupping sob, "failed and they'll – kick me out of the army and – send me home."

"Zhatren?" Ulûrk asked. "It's me, Ulûrk."

Zhatren slowly tried to get up, but couldn't.

"Ulûrk I'm" he started, snivelling again, "happy you're here but – I feel so alone and it's all – dark and I want out – and I feel like I'm gonna – die here!" He was humiliated that his friend was seeing him like this. But, unlike his usual self, Ulûrk did not act at all rude.

"Up ya get, buddy," He said instead, his tone conciliatory and encouraging. He grabbed Zhatren's arm and pulled him upright. "Now, c'mon, ya lean on me, and we'll get ta the end of this tunnel."

Zhatren felt too weak to move, and dragged his legs, leaning on Ulûrk for support. But his heart was lighter, knowing that he truly had a friend, on whom he could rely when he most needed it.

The tunnel seemed to stretch on endlessly. Time passed by, and the scenery did not change. It was an eternal night. Day had never come here, and likely never would.

Why, then, was the world lightening? Like a new dawn, the walls of the tunnel grew clearer, and Zhatren could dimply see Ulûrk by his side!

"C'mon," Ulûrk said, the first words either of them had spoken since they had begun travelling down the accursed tunnel. "We're almost there!"

Ulûrk sped up, holding Zhatren's hand, and Zhatren found new strength in his legs. They ran forward, exhilarated by their escape.

Eventually they sprung out of the other end, and Ulûrk collapsed against the cliff wall. Zhatren, full of renewed vigour, sat down beside him.

At once the spell of silence was removed from Zhatren, and he felt able to speak freely, no longer oppressed by the overhanging weight of the dark and horrid Ephel Dúath.

"Thanks so much for coming for me you're a really really good friend you know I felt so alone and I was afraid I would die and it was so scary so I freaked out I'm sorry you saw me like that I hope it doesn't change your opinion of me…"

Zhatren faded off into silence, nervously awaiting a reply, some of his initial euphoria already gone. The atmosphere without the tunnel, though more wholesome than that within, was still not encouraging.

"Not in the least," Ulûrk grunted, sounding far more like his usual self. Zhatren smiled.

"Oh boy I'm so happy we finished the test and now we're soldiers isn't that exciting I'm so happy and I thought Khentz would laugh so hard when I didn't make it but now–"

"We're not done yet," Ulûrk reminded him, interrupting. "We have to pass the gates of the city."

They both glanced over the edge of the high cliff, down at the small, glowing fortress. Zhatren didn't like the look of it. He shivered, turning away.

"Well let's go then I mean I don't want to be near this tunnel any longer than I have to!" Ulûrk nodded, and they started down the path.

There were a series of steep stairs roughly cut into the rock, but they were slippery and unsafe. Zhatren, however, found them no challenge after the dreadful tunnel, and was practically skipping down them.

"Slow down, kid!" Ulûrk called out from behind. Zhatren turned around to look at him.

"I'm fine I'm just so excited and— whoa!"

He had still been running while speaking, and had not noticed the start of another set of stairs. He tripped, fell, and tumbled a ways, coming to rest a few mere inches from the edge of the cliff.

Zhatren gasped for air, heart racing, as he stared over the precipice that he had almost fallen over. Far below him, the city of Minas Morgul grinned back up at him, a fell light flickering from within.

Ulûrk ran over to him with a yell. "You all right?"

"Fine I think – just a little scared you know I think you're right let's go together I don't want to fall off!"

"Alright," Ulûrk said. "Ya stay closer ta the wall, then. It'll make me less anxious."

They continued down the path, saying little, as Zhatren was beginning to feel apprehensive again. He had forgotten that the tunnel hadn't been the entire test.

The last set of stairs was steeper than the others, and they descended it very slowly. Just a ways ahead they could see another figure slowly crawling down.

"Another one of the cadets," Ulûrk said, gesturing with his head toward the figure.

"Good then if anything attacks him we'll be warned right?"

Ulûrk laughed. "That's one benefit," he agreed. "But isn't it nice ta know yer not the only one who made it through that tunnel?"

Zhatren nodded but said nothing, as he did not want to relive the horrible experience.

They made it at length to the bottom, and then turned at last toward the Haunted City. There was a stream to their side, and a bridge ran across it.

The meadow on the other side was filled with tiny, glowing flowers, and Zhatren looked over toward them, intrigued. Something about them was altogether displeasing; it may have been the shape, colour, or perhaps the strange odour that arose from them.

"Ugh I don't like the flowers…" he started, but didn't finish. The perfume from them rose to his head and numbed it. He began to feel light-headed and dizzy.

They came at length to the bridge, which was pure white, but the shape of it was subtly distorted, giving it an unwholesome feel. It seemed to glow with the reflected light of the dread city ahead. Slowly they dared to raise their eyes, and beheld Minas Morgul in its entirety.

The city itself blazed with a pale light from within, some remnant, perhaps, of the old moonlight of Minas Ithil. But more alike to the works of Sauron did it feel than to those of Gondor.

The light did not travel beyond the walls of the tower, so that all around was black, and the eye was forced onto the tower, and ensnared by it. It seemed impossible to look away.

Atop the tower was a glowing head, horrible in shape, leering first one way, then another, as it slowly revolved. A fell red light shone in its eyes.

"We gotta go," Ulûrk said, but Zhatren was immobilised. He stood still, staring up at the vast menace of the tower ahead of him. Ahead he could see the silhouette of the other orc hesitating on the bridge, halfway across.

Zhatren reluctantly tore his gaze from the city, and stared at the bridge ahead of him. On either side there were great stone sculptures, cunningly made to be as loathsome as possible.

They bore the likeness of Men, but also resembled some hideous monsters from ancient tales. They seemed to hold a menace, and Zhatren was reluctant to approach them. Slowly he dragged his feet onward.

A cold, icy vapour rose from the gurgling stream below, and Zhatren shivered. He went on, Ulûrk beside him. The glowing tower drew nearer.

They reached the other side of the bridge, and stumbled onward. The city was just ahead of them. The gate was wide open. All they needed to do was cross the threshold.

The tower seemed to hold a hidden malevolence. It thrust against them, trying to keep them from entering. Mutilated forms were carven above the door. They barred the entrance with an invisible force.

With all his might, Zhatren forced his legs onward. He stumbled, and fell through. The gate had relented.

Zhatren got up, and looked around. He was inside the tower, and it was lit with a pale green light, that from the inside seemed far more homely and welcoming. Ulûrk stumbled in behind him, grunting as he passed through the main gate.

A guard stood at the door at the other end of the entry. They walked toward him.

"Welcome to Minas Morgul," he said, then added, "soldiers of Mordor."


	32. Chapter 32

**XXXII**

**Têrk**

They marched on through the hilly country, the road abandoned behind. They were many times foiled by sheer cliffs, or dense clumps of brush. Trails here were few and treacherous. The few times that Kôzrin found one, it simply led them right back to the road. An hour later they were weary from the tiresome march, but still no signs of Faramir had been found.

A mile or so down the road (Kôzrin had at last decided to abandon the hopeless search through the woods) they found some signs. Fresh corpses lay along the side of the road. Têrk looked at them in disgust – dried blood caked their dark faces.

"Here must've been that battle that that Harad Man was talkin' o'," Kôzrin guessed.

"Look," Largg whispered, nudging Têrk. Têrk followed his gaze and saw a Man stashed off in the bushes at the side. He was concealed better, and Têrk shifted his head to get a clearer view. This Man was a pale white, his hair a dark brown.

"Must've been one of the Gondor Men, in Faramir's company," Têrk said. "We can take the meat!"

Kôzrin heard and shook his head. "Nah," he said. "Yer getting' fresh meat soon. Once we find these blasted Men."

They passed on, leaving the battlefield behind. A few minutes later, Kôzrin suddenly paused. He held out his arm, commanding them to halt.

"Shh – I hear someone!" he hissed.

Têrk strained his ears, and, sure enough, he could hear what sounded like a single Man crashing through the bushes. Pugrek, who was in their company, readied his bow.

"Should I shoot, sir?" he asked.

"Only if yer sure yer not gonna miss. Ya miss and he goes and warns the rest!"

Pugrek took that as a "yes" and loosed the arrow. Têrk saw, through the trees, the Man stumble and fall.

"Three cheers for Pugrek," another orc in the company, who Têrk knew was named Rallsan, cried. They rushed over to the top of the hill that the Man had been standing on.

The Man, to Têrk's horror, was still alive. He lay on the ground, face up, gasping. His face was screwed up in pain, and his side was bloody, Pugrek's arrow sticking out of it. He stared up in fear as the orcs approached.

"Oy!" Pugrek cried. "He lives! Anyone up for some fun?"

"Ya from Erranór?" Kôzrin asked. "Cause in Gorgoroth we prefer food ta sport."

"We're all from the same town. But he's my kill. I shot the arrow."

"But I'm the leader," Kôzrin reminded him. "Cut his throat. I want some lunch."

Pugrek leaned forward and took out his knife. Slowly he slid it across the Man's neck. Pugrek's hand clamped his mouth shut, preventing him from screaming. After about ten seconds, Kôzrin pushed Pugrek aside, and, with a swift stroke of his sword, hewed the Man's head off.

"You a softie?" Pugrek asked, laughing.

"Nah," Kôzrin replied gruffly. "Ya were takin' too long. Believe me, ya ain't ever gonna catch Kôzrin feelin' pity fer a Man. Just, when I'm hungry, I ain't gonna put up with yer nonsense."

As they lit a fire and prepared the meat, Têrk wandered off into a corner. He had felt pity for the Man, and admonished himself for his feeling. Was it okay to treat Men like that? He knew that they weren't orcs, and that they were inferior. They didn't have souls, or anything of that nature. But he had thought that the cruelty had been unnecessary. He doubted he would have minded if it had had a purpose, like some of the mental warfare tactics that Sauron loved. But it hadn't, and Têrk was irked most by the gratuitousness of the act. Even to a Man, Têrk thought, there was no need to do that.

Largg wandered over to him. "Ya alright? Want some meat?"

Têrk nodded and accepted the still-hot meat. Largg sat down beside him.

"I understand, buddy," Largg said. "I didn't much like seein' my first Man killed, either. But ya see it a lot in war, and ya kinda ferget about it."

Têrk suddenly realised that the meat he was eating was from that same Man. He stopped chewing, feeling nauseous.

"I didn't know what it was gonna be like," he told Largg. "I thought, ya know, the army – it's cool. Kill big bad Men, eat fresh meat every day. But I didn't know what it would be like. The killin' part, I mean."

"What's wrong with it? Ya realise that if he had seen us, he woulda attacked us?"

"Then I wouldn'ta had a problem," Têrk replied. "That's war, I guess. This's somethin' else. Guerrilla style, I think it's called. It's not fair…"

"Yeah," Largg agreed. "But it's not Sauron's fault we gotta fight this way. Faramir started it, by hiding in these woods. If he came out then we'd have a fair fight."

Têrk nodded, feeling somewhat less guilty. But he still remembered Pugrek, and how much he had enjoyed the slow agony of his quarry. That, Têrk thought, was not ethical.

"What's buggin' ya?" Largg asked.

"Just, ya know, why did Pugrek wanna torture him? We shoulda asked where Faramir was, at least. I've no problem with torture if yer getting' information. But that wasn't Pugrek's goal. He just wanted to see the Man hurt."

"So did I," Largg said quietly, and Têrk stared at him in surprise. Largg's voice sounded a little different, as though the topic was painful to him. He went on.

"Ya don't get it, 'cause yer new. Ya haven't lost friends ta war yet. Ya haven't seen the cruelty that Men can do. I have. They're all as bad as Pugrek."

"So he was doin' that slow throat-cutting thing fer revenge?" Têrk asked.

Largg shrugged. "I guess."

Têrk sighed, wondering if that made it any better.

However, he did not have long to mull over it. In seconds, a rain of arrows fell amongst them. One hit Pugrek and he fell over with a cry, toppling into the fire. In spite of the ambush, Têrk stared in horror toward the fire, which quickly ignited Pugrek's garments. The burning orc screamed as red flames licked around his body. He fell over and lay on the ground, writhing.

Têrk's attention was diverted by a yell from the woods. "Scum of Mordor!" someone cried in the Common Tongue. "Look, captain, they roast one of our kinsmen!"

Many Men stormed through the trees, surrounding the smaller company of orcs. There were about twenty Men, and only ten – no, Pugrek was dead – nine of them. Têrk felt a rage ignite inside him. He hated the Men, and with what carelessness they had dispatched Pugrek. At once he understood what Largg had meant. He wanted them to have to pay for it.

They paused, and one of them whispered something to another. Têrk caught "too small to do any harm" and "might have useful information."

Then the Man who had first spoken stepped forward. "Hear me, foul orcs of Mordor. I am Faramir, Captain of Gondor, son of the Steward, Denethor. Seldom do we choose to engage in a battle of such unfair odds, unless our foes do so before us. What have you done with our friend? You spoiled his corpse, and took no care to bury him! By that alone should I have the justification to kill you! Come, who here speaks our tongue?"

Kôzrin stepped forward. "See here, captain, ya don't need ta kill us." He stopped at that. Têrk felt it was pretty lame, and feared the strike. But Faramir had other plans.

Faramir glared down at Kôzrin. "Why would that be? What use are you to me? You've naught to sell, save information. You must know somewhat of your master's movements and his army's whereabouts. Tell me, and you shall leave free."

One of the other Men glanced askance at the captain, puzzled. He whispered, but he used the Common Tongue, and Têrk could understand. "Captain Faramir, why do you lie now, after such a long history of honesty. You always said that you would not snare even an orc with falsehood."

"Be at peace, Mablung. I speak truly. Have they useful information, I shall let them be, for the time."

"But they are here unbidden, and should they not suffer the penalty of death?"

Faramir looked troubled. "Such I not my way," he responded. "But for the Shadow, we would need not have such wars. These orcs, unlike the Haradrim we attacked earlier, pose no immediate threat."

"But for their existence," Mablung muttered. Kôzrin, Têrk could see, was growing irritated.

"Look, captain," he said in the Common Tongue. "We ain't done nothing against you, but use some meat that we found lyin' on the ground, which woulda rotted otherwise. Ya got a problem with that?"

"You just found it, did you?" Faramir asked. "So you guys didn't kill this Man?"

"No, sir!" Kôzrin lied.

"Then who did?" Faramir asked. "For I know that he was alive just last night, when I sent him forth to scout out the road. Who slew him, if not you?" The captain's voice was harsh, as though he could see through the lie.

Kôzrin shrugged. "I dunno." He turned around and his face broke into a large smile. "Them, maybe," he said to Faramir, smiling with forged innocence. He pointed over Faramir's shoulder, at the other groups of orcs, who were marching quickly toward them. Têrk felt an immense relief. The odds were looking better.

"We've been tricked!" Mablung yelled furiously, and he angrily swung his sword toward Kôzrin, who did not react quickly enough. His head flew up a few feet into the air and came to rest a yard from his body.

The remaining orcs were infuriated, and they fought back with passion. Têrk found himself fighting a large, muscular Man. His swordsmanship was good, and Têrk fought hard, parrying the many blows. Each time he struck out, he was blocked. Têrk began to feel weary.

His opponent's sword scraped his scalp, and he felt a burning pain on his forehead. Suddenly, an overwhelming determination cam over Têrk. He would not die in his first battle! He struck out fiercely, and gained the advantage. The Man seemed taken off his guard, taken aback by the sudden ferocity of the onslaught. Têrk rammed his sword at him, and it notched on his mail, but it left a good sized dent in his armour, and he flinched in pain. Then Têrk dealt a stroke across his neck, just under his helm. The sword made it halfway through the Man's neck and stuck there. Têrk collapsed on top of his slain opponent, adrenaline rushing through him.

That battle had been fair, and Têrk felt no pity for the now dead Man. He felt his head, and realised he had been wounded badly. He was just relieved that he had survived.

Faramir and his Men had retreated, and the remaining orcs came over to the battlefield.

"We gotta go," Officer Kerzaque said. "Faramir will return with more Men. Grab some meat, if you earned it, then let's get marching!"

Têrk grabbed the corpse, but it was too heavy. He tried to cut off a leg but was quickly disgusted by the task. He left the meat behind.

"We heard your yell," Officer Kerzaque was telling Largg and Rallsan. "So we hurried over, just in time, it seems. Where's Kôzrin?"

"He fell," Largg said.

"But he did a great job delaying Faramir," Rallsan added. "And the Men argued amongst themselves a little too."

Officer Kerzaque laughed. "That's a Man for you. Especially those of Gondor. They use far too many words."

"I didn't catch any of it," Largg said. "I don't know the Western language."

"You didn't miss much," Rallsan promised.

Têrk wandered over toward them, feeling dizzy.

"You're wounded too!" Officer Kerzaque noted. "That makes eight of us. We'll have to stop by Minas Morgul, to drop you guys off." Flustered, he moved on to another group of orcs, who were dragging the corpses of their compatriots off into the bushes. With plenty of meat from the dead men, there was no need to feast on the orcs.

As they arranged the dead, Largg came over to Têrk. "Ya okay?"

"Fine. Just a scratch. But now I get what ya mean with the hate and revenge! They kill Pugrek so nonchalant and all, then go trying to bargain with us!"

"Is that what they were doing?" Largg asked.

"A lotta bullshit about not wanting to fight with unfair odds. But it's all hypocrisy, ya know."

"No, I don't. What's hypocrisy?"

"When ya say one thing and do the other. Lyin', basically."

Largg nodded in agreement as Officer Kerzaque came over to them.

"We're ready to go."

"Who did we lose, sir?" Têrk asked, trying to be casual.

"Pugrek, Tarázk, Leran, and Kôzrin. But we killed seven Men, so it's not bad."

Têrk sighed in relief, while, at the same time, feeling bad for doing so. In a way, he was glad to hear who had died. No one he knew very well, at least, had been one of the victims. Têrk realised that he was happy that the other orcs had taken his friends' places.

He supposed that war was just like that. Some people would have to die. He'd just have to hope that he didn't know them.


	33. Chapter 33

**XXXIII**

**Largg**

Têrk seemed to be slightly disoriented by the wound. Officer Kerzaque had bandaged him, like he had the others. But Têrk still was acting funny. Largg wanted to help, but he was no doctor.

Office Kerzaque had decided that Faramir's group of Men was too tough. He had told them to stop the hunt. Because they had attacked the Men once, the officer felt that their mission was complete.

"He's too strong," Officer Kerzaque explained, soon after the battle. "We had twice his number, but they are better with their swords than I expected. The cap tain himself escaped, and will gather a larger force. Then they will be the hunters, and us the prey. It is pointless to continue the fight now. We'll go to Minas Morgul, and report there that we gave Faramir a hard time."

Largg felt that they were quitting prematurely, and couldn't help judging the officer as cowardly. However, in light of Têrk's injury, he had no qualms about retreating.

They had taken several of the larger and meatier Men from the battlefield for food, so they ate well during the march. Still, even burdened as they were by the weight of the meat they carried, Officer Kerzaque hurried, as he feared that Faramir was not far behind. For several days they marched on the road, and the country changed little. They met no others, neither Men of Gondor, nor those of Harad. Looking around, Largg commented on the strange emptiness of the road.

"We haven't seen any more of those dark Men," he said to Têrk.

"Yeah, I'm glad," Têrk replied, sounding dazed.

"They're our allies, ya know?" Largg reminded him.

"Yeah, but they're still Men. I don't get what makes them okay."

Largg thought about this for a while. "The colour of their skin," he suggested.

Têrk didn't reply, but just shrugged. Then, after a minute of silence, he added, "Ya know, it's just that I used ta think o' Men as the Enemy. But Sauron seems to be friends with some o' them. It made me less willin' ta kill any Men."

"Yer gonna learn which types are bad," Largg replied. "Then ya won't feel pity fer Gondor scum. But I agree that Sauron confused me too, when He allied with the Men. Ya'd think he had plenty of orcs and trolls and stuff…" Largg broke off, remembering Mark and Bob, and how mercilessly they had been summoned off to war.

Têrk nodded, not seeming to follow. Largg was nervous about him. It seemed as though Têrk's first battle had affected his sanity, or something.

"You okay?" Largg asked after a short hiatus in the conversation.

"Fine," Têrk grunted in reply, then sighed. "My head just is hurtin' real awful. Feels like a soldier's beatin' it with the blunt edge o' his sword."

"Yer wounded pretty bad," Largg reminded him. "Just be glad yer still alive."

"I am. Ain't so bad fer my first real fight, I think."

"No," Largg agreed, smiling. "Ya didn't trip and fall, or screw up, like ya said ya would. It ain't bad at all."

They stopped talking, and the next few hours passed in silence. Quickly they marched on, always fearing the pursuit of Faramir and his soldiers. Yet, despite their fears, Ithilien was as silent as a grave, and the long hours passed without incident.

By dusk they had arrived as the cross-roads. Here they turned left, toward Minas Morgul. The great city lay straight in front of them, and Largg cringed upon seeing it.

It glowed with a pale light, the very tower illuminated in a sickly green hue. Hideous gargoyles were carven into the thing itself, and the largest of these stood on top. It rotated to and fro slowly, as though silently searching all who approached the city, and judging them. Largg tried to look away, but the light captured and held his gaze.

"C'mon," Officer Kerzaque called. "March."

They marched onward, and it seemed that Largg was not the only one filled with awe. When Largg finally tore his gaze off the glowing building, he saw that many of the other soldiers were staring up at it, struck dumb as he had been.

They came to as bridge, and crossed it. Beyond the bridge were vast plains of tiny flowers, seeming to glow themselves. Largg stooped down and picked one.

"What ya got?" Têrk asked when he bent over. Largg held up the tiny blossom.

"Weird," Têrk muttered. "It's deformed."

Largg stared at it some more, and realised that all the petals were of different size. The shape was somewhat disquieting.

"Looks like a bunny," Largg said absentmindedly, twirling it with his fingers.

Têrk squinted at it. "More like a headless Dwarf ta me."

"Quiet down back there," Officer Kerzaque demanded. They had reached the city's gates. The gates were closed, and Officer Kerzaque banged on them with his fist.

A guard opened them. "Who're you?" he demanded.

"Officer Kerzaque, sent to hassle Faramir. We did so, and killed seven of his Men, losing only four orcs ourselves."

"Are your orcs still fit to fight, officer?" the guard asked.

"Some of them. Why?"

"The southerners want reinforcements. We're sending a large group down that way, to the coast. They will raid the villages along the Anduin."

"We can do so, if the Eye desires it," the officer responded after a brief moment of consideration. Largg figured that he hadn't really had much choice.

"Good. You shall rest here tonight, then head off in the morning. Your wounded may remain behind until they recover, and go to war later."

The guard opened the gate, and the company of orcs marched into the city.

Officer Kerzaque asked the guard where the nearest hospital could be found, and they went to it. Many of the soldiers had received some cut or another injury, and these were all bandaged. Others, like Têrk, had more serious wounds, and were told to remain in the hospital, and not to march south with the rest. Largg was one of the few who were unscathed.

Because he did not need medical aid, he was free to wander the city. Largg marvelled at the layout of the tower. In the centre was an enormous domed hall, large enough to fit thousands of orcs. Along the sides were many shops and the like. A peculiar orb, hung from the centre of the dome, lit the room, and it gave off a soft and homely green light. How it worked, Largg could not fathom.

"Ya give me twice as much meat if ya want ten coins," a haggler cried just behind Largg. Largg smiled, reminded of the market at his hometown. He paused to watch.

"It's Man-flesh!" the merchant argued.

"And it's how old? Yer pathetic. Ya know, I could go outside and find better quality meat in the woods."

"How 'bout I only charge eight coins?"

"Five."

The merchant considered. "Six?"

"Deal," the other orc said, handing him some silver, and taking his meat. He turned around, and Largg, to his surprise, recognised the face. He approached the orc.

"Hey! Don't I know ya?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps. I'm not too good with names and faces. I mighta met ya before."

"I'm Largg," Largg said. The other orc shrugged.

"Doesn't ring a bell. I'm Ulûrk."

This name did mean something to Largg. He remembered, in what seemed a distant dream, the journey to Dorezátz. Sheglock and Morrick's friend was Ulûrk, and they had always been concerned about him. In fact, Largg had even delivered their letter to him.

"We have met before! Remember. I sent ya Morrick's letter."

Ulûrk grimaced. "Yeah. I remember now. And I wasn't too nice ta ya then."

"No hard feelings," Largg assured him. "How're ya?"

"Good. I'm an official soldier of Mordor now."

"Good job," Largg congratulated him.

"Thanks. I'm just glad ta be rid of Captain Khentz."

Largg sighed, remembering his own experiences with the captain. "Ya had him too?"

"Yeah…"

"What'd he call ya?" Largg asked.

"Mr. Smith," Ulûrk replied, looking curiously at Largg. "But I thought he only picked on me."

"No. he has names fer all his trainees. I was Log."

Ulûrk seemed genuinely surprised that the captain had insulted anyone else. He apparently had assumed that Khentz was decent to others, though Largg could not recall the captain ever saying a nice word to anyone. They spent a few minutes discussing their experiences with him. Largg could see that the reminiscing was helping Ulûrk rid himself of all the built-up hate and aggression. He smiled as Ulûrk ranted, remembering his own need, early on, to purge himself of all his terrible memories of the captain.

"I better go," Ulûrk said at length. "They're gonna be looking fer me."

"Bye, then," Largg said, slightly taken aback by the abrupt termination of the conversation. He supposed Ulûrk was just like that. He was gruff, but still kind and nice, and he was gentle and considerate beneath his shell. "It was nice gettin' ta know ya. Now I get why ya can be great friends with Sheglock."

Ulûrk laughed. "Ya probably didn't get that from our first meeting. I was anxious then."

"No, but it's fine," Largg assured him.

Ulûrk got up to leave. "See ya after the war," he called as he walked away. "We can all get together, myself and all of ya who went to Dorezátz. I'll hold a huge party at my house!"

"I look forward ta it," Largg cried, but Ulûrk had become lost amidst the hundreds of orcs wandering the great domed hall.

Largg wandered back over to the hospital. Officer Kerzaque had gathered there, with many of the others. Several of them were bandaged, but they did not have serious injuries.

"There you are," the officer called as he approached.

"Am I late?" Largg asked in concern.

"No, but you're barely on time. We've got to leave soon. We're needed at the coast."

"Where are the rest of us?" Largg asked. By "the rest of us" he meant Têrk.

"Those who were not fit for battle are staying here to rest. Your friend has to remain in the hospital."

"May I see him?" Largg asked in alarm.

Officer Kerzaque nodded. "Hurry, though. Meet the rest of us by the gate, in fifteen minutes."

Largg saluted him, and then turned to the hospital door. He was feeling down. It seemed that he made friends only to lose them. He lost track of how many partings he had made in the past few months. This time, from Têrk, but also earlier, from Burk, Sheglock, the trolls, and even earlier, when he left his parents to become a soldier.

Largg sighed, then pushed the door open. The hospital was a long corridor-like hall with beds on either end. One wall was covered with windows. Beneath a large window Largg saw Têrk, whose head was wrapped heavily in cloth.

"Hey!" Têrk called, seeing him, and he sat up.

"Hi," Largg replied, less enthusiastic.

"I guess I have ta stay here…" Têrk muttered.

"Yeah. I'm – er, here ta say goodbye."

Têrk rolled his eyes. "Don't ya get sentimental! We ain't sayin' good-bye. I'll see ya after the war, and yer gonna have a load o' stories fer me."

"But the war might go on for a long time!" Largg protested. "It could be months, or years, before I see ya again."

Têrk laughed. "Nah. Sauron's army is far greater than ole Gondor's. And He's gonna use fear tactics too. There ain't no way we're losin'."

"Gondor has the Ring," Largg reminded him.

"Ya haven't heard the news?" Têrk asked, surprised. "Saruman has It! One o' the Nazgûl was just through here. The whole city's excited!"

Largg was shocked. "Saruman?"

"Yeah. But he won't give It over. Lord Zul-Därsch is flyin' ta Isengard just now."

Largg smiled. "With the Ring, the war'll go even faster!"

"Maybe," Têrk responded, smiling.

"Well, then I won't say goodbye. Only, 'see ya later,' and then I'll go fer a while."

"Good. Yer gonna finish in no time."

Another orc approached Largg from behind. "'Scuse me?"

"What?"

"These patients need rest," the orc, a hospital employee, explained.

"I'm leaving," Largg promised.

"Good. You give him some peace."

Largg nodded his head at Têrk. "While, I'm gonna give ya rest. See ya!"

"Soon!" Têrk replied, then waved his hand once. Largg saluted him in a friendly manner, then turned and walked back toward the door. He reached it, resisted the temptation to turn back or look over his shoulder, and turned the handle. Then he passed through, and the door shut behind him. Again, he was alone.


	34. Chapter 34

******XXXIV**

**Burk**

The next day Officer Duérkon's company gathered in front of the Gate, as it was set to open at noon. Burk sighed as he looked around at the bustling camp. Orcs hurried to and fro, on errands unbeknownst to him. Above, the gray cloud hung heavily, a pressing gloom. Burk knew that haste was needed, but the smoke seemed to sap his strength, and he felt lethargic.

Officer Duérkon called them over during a lull in the action. "Alright. We are about to leave Mordor, and once we pass its gates, we are in unsafe territory. Moreover, our destination is no fortress of Sauron's."

"We're not going to Minas Morgul?" one of the soldiers blurted in surprise. Officer Duérkon looked askance at him for the interruption, and the offending orc hung his head. But the officer did answer the question.

"No. We are headed to the brink of war. We are going to Osgiliath, which Sauron has only recently claimed. Gondor still holds the western portion of the city, across Anduin. But you shall see for yourselves the condition of Gondor's capital when we arrive."

An official hastened over to the officer, and he stopped speaking, and turned to address her.

"Sorry," she apologised. "Did I interrupt you, sir?"

"Not in the least," Officer Duérkon replied. "I had just finished speaking."

"Well, that is good. The gate is about to open."

She directed them to a spot between two other companies, and the soldiers stood there for several minutes. Then a horn blasted from the towers, and an answering blast came from behind. With a great groan, the gates slowly opened outward onto the vast battle plain. Burk stared ahead at the desolate land beyond his country's borders. Before he could even think about the sight ahead of him, he was already marching through the gates, and out of Mordor.

The soldiers followed the road south-westward. A few groups soon turned westward, toward Rohan.

"Sir, what is their business in the north?" one of the company asked. Burk recognised him as the same who had just questioned the destination of Osgiliath.

Again, Officer Duérkon found patience to answer. "Sauron fears the Rohirrim may come to Gondor's aid. They are scouts, tying to trace the movements of the horse-Men."

They marched onwards, and the road curved to the south. The country changed little, but that the pale creamy white earth was replaced by grey, stony cliffs. The ground was rocky and uneven, broken into jagged spikes, but the road ran straight through, hewn long ago, Burk assumed, through hours of toil.

They camped that night on the side of the road, and resumed their journey the next day. Though they posted scouts, the night came and went bringing naught of interest.

They continued southwards, and as they drew further from Orodruin, the smoke lessened. The soldiers were gladdened by the change, and Burk felt as though a weight was lifted from his chest. With renewed vigour they travelled onward, the light of the setting sun just barely reaching them from the West.

Thus the third day of their march ended, and they rested for a while. In the morning, the cloud had advanced a little further, and the soldiers groaned, as it was again over their heads.

"You grumble, but it is Sauron who created the smog above us," Officer Duérkon said. "In fact, it is not travelling nearly swiftly enough. At this rate, it will be long ere it reaches Minas Tirith."

"But why does Sauron do this?" one of the younger orcs asked. "Does he not realise that it affects us, too?"

"Did you miss the strategy course in your training?" Officer Duérkon asked. "It is done to depress the enemy, and weaken their will. Sauron has many such tools to do so, the Nazgûl not the least of them. But He believes that orcs are stronger than Men, and knows that we can endure."

"But, sir," Burk said, trying to clarify a point he had long not understood. "We have Men who are our allies too, right?"

"Yes," the officer responded. "The Southrons of Harad, and the Men of Khand, as well as the wild Easterlings, who are untamed but fierce. But Sauron does not value them as much. They are merely His tools, and we, His people, shall get the better deal when He wins. Their reward for their allegiance will be that He proposes to let them be, and enslave only Men of the West. The realms of Gondor and Rohan He will rule, but Harad and the east will remain separate countries."

Burk nodded, seeing the sense in that plan. It was better for Sauron to send foreigners to war, than His own people. Yet another of His clever ways to minimise His losses.

They resumed marching after the officer had given everyone a meagre slice of meat, and a tiny slice of bread, for breakfast. Burk was annoyed by the ration, and his stomach growled as they started off. But not long after they had begun marching, they came upon a fresh battlefield (_relatively_ fresh, but it was Man-flesh, and Burk really didn't care). The corpses of many dark Men lay about, as well as a few arrayed in the mail of Gondor. Officer Duérkon bent over one of the bodies that was clad in the insignia of the silver tree.

"Sir?" Burk cried desperately, as the officer had gotten back up and made no signs of stopping for a feast.

Officer Duérkon turned around. "May we take some food?" Burk asked desperately.

"Yes, if you can do so in the next minute," the officer replied. The soldiers swarmed on the corpses. Burk, remembering the alliance between Mordor and Harad, selected one of the Gondor-Men over the dark ones. Swiftly and skillfully he drew his knife and butchered the dead Man, taking a sizable drumstick from the leg.

He was back in time, but several others were not. "Everyone, into formation!" Officer Duérkon called. Those too unfortunate who had not gotten any meat returned glumly with empty arms. One or returned dragging a full body, still struggling to separate the muscle from the bone.

"Drop him," Officer Duérkon commanded acidly. "We're going on. When we arrive at Osgiliath, there will be meat aplenty, and _fresh_ meat too."

They marched on, pausing only briefly to rest. During the rest, Burk voraciously devoured his meat raw, hungry from the long march. By dusk he was again ravenous, and looked disdainfully at the small piece of pig-meat in front of him.

"Army food sucks," he grumbled to the orc nearest him, who he did not know (Burk didn't know the names of many of his fellow soldiers, as he was not travelling in his usual contingent).

"But the pay's good," the orc replied.

"Money's not much help if ya got nowhere to spend it," Burk told him. "But that was a waste of Man-flesh back there. We could've carried a lot more!"

"Don't you grumble!" the orc replied bitterly. "At least you got some. I didn't!"

"That sucks for ya," Burk agreed. The other orc glared at him.

"Stop complaining, or you'll get _no_ rations," Officer Duérkon threatened from behind, apparently having overheard them. Burk dropped the topic, and passed the rest of the time in silence.

Officer Duérkon got them up again and marched them for several hours into the night, and they stopped at the crossroads. Burk was fatigued, and collapsed beside the road. Unfortunately, he had watch duty, and was woken too soon, while it was still night.

For several tiresome hours Burk stared at the despoiled stone statue that lay at the crossing of the roads. Nothing happened, and he almost fell asleep. He just barely managed to make it to the end of his watch. After what seemed a long while he shook the next orc awake, and collapsed again.

They rose in the morning, and Burk was not at all rested. Officer Duérkon took the company down the south-western road, and for many long hours they marched through the quiet land of Ithilien. Soon they again passed the edge of the grey cloud, and their pace quickened.

By the end of the day, they were, by Officer Duérkon's reckoning, they were only two leagues north of Osgiliath. "We'll be there tomorrow morning," he assured them.

The next day dawned clear and crisp, and dew lay across West Ithilien. The shadow from Orodruin had been left behind, and the sun just barely shone over it. Officer Duérkon roused his company, and they began the last stage of their march.

Burk was refreshed by the cool air, and felt more rested since the night's sleep. He ate his frugal breakfast, which felt surprisingly more substantial than usual.

They marched for several hours, taking no breaks, and so quickly crossed the land. Soon they could see the great capital of Gondor ahead of them. Vast and mighty it seemed at first, but as Burk drew nearer he beheld that it was falling into decay. Rubble littered the ground, and many towers and battlements had large chunks carven from them, the remnant damage of catapult shot fired in the wars of the previous years. Osgiliath was still a place of war, and neither side had yet rebuilt it, so the city had gradually crumbled as the war had progressed.

Burk had heard a lot about Osgiliath before, as his father had fought (and died) there during his youth. But seeing the city for the first time, Burk was surprised. It looked much more like an ancient ruin than a functional city. The devastation of the war had already shaped it beyond repair.

As they drew nearer, they passed many orcs heading out back toward the woods. These were gathering wood from the trees, Burk saw. Several others just ahead of them carried two enormous tree trunks on a large wooden cart. Though the city itself was made of stone, the newer features (those built by Sauron) were made of wood. It seemed foreign to Burk, who had grown up in Gorgoroth, where wood was seldom seen.

Officer Duérkon led his company through the many bustling labourers, and to what looked like a large palace. It was made of stone, and what was left of the architecture was very intricate. The officer marched his group through the open doors and into the main hall, which was open to the sky. Burk started around the room, which had been partially cleared out, though large chunks of rubble remained in the corners.

"Who are you?" an orc on the far side of the room demanded, crossing towards them. Burk noticed that he bore a captains' badge.

"Officer Duérkon, reporting," the officer replied. "I've brought more orcs."

"Get them to work," the captain commanded. When Officer Duérkon hesitated a second, he grumbled and said, "I'll do it. Soldiers, listen. We need siege towers, rafts, ladders, and catapults. Go out and find someone building something, and help. Now, hurry!"

Burk left the room quickly, not wanting to spend any more time with the irritable captain, who reminded Burk somewhat of Captain Khentz. He wondered if being a jerk was somewhere in their job description.

"Yo," an orc called just seconds after he had stepped outside. "Come'n help, will ya? Yer one o' the new folks, aintcha?"

"Yeah," Burk called back, hurrying over. "What do ya need?"

"Hi, I'm Zaòrk. We're building' a siege tower, ya know. Ain't easy work, let me tell ya. Care ta lend a hand?"

"No," Burk replied, stepping toward the structure they were building. It was about three stories high, but only the skeleton had yet been built. On each story was a wooden platform, with ladders leading upward. But the sides were open, and only four stout posts on the corners held the higher floors up.

"It gotta be twice as high," Zaòrk explained. "And the sides oughta be closed, else arrers are gonna hit our soldiers."

Burk spent the next several hours hauling long wooden beams over to the workers. Slowly the tower assembled, and they eventually laid the last floorboards of the sixth floor. Burk sighed and sat down on a fallen column, staring up at the large structure.

"Do we get lunch?" he asked Zaòrk.

"Yeah, er – what's yer name?"

"Burk."

"Yeah, Burk, ya get it when the 'spector comes and checks our progresses."

Promptly the inspector passed by, and Zaòrk hailed him. He nodded toward them.

"Thirty minute break for you – good work. Start adding the sides after you rest."

"Thank ya, sir," Zaòrk replied, smiling. "C'mon chaps, let's chow!"

There was a good amount of food, and it was still fresh, as the war provided constant meat. Even Burk was able to have his fill, and in fact even felt rather crapulous after finishing. Despite his discomfort, he still was required to resume work after the short rest, and he did so, feeling stuffed and nauseous.

"Did ya eat ta much, Burk, ey?" Zaòrk asked, laughing as Burk dragged another board slowly toward him.

"I'm feeling sick," he muttered.

"Yo, Holavor," he called to one of the orcs working inside the tower.

"What?" she called back.

"Wanna switch with Burk 'ere? He ain't feelin' up ta carryin' anything."

"Neither am I," she replied, but came down anyway, and gave Burk a leather bag full of nails. "Just nail them in hard," she explained.

"With my hands?" Burk asked incredulously.

"No, with your head," Holavor replied sarcastically, handing Burk a hammer.

"That oughta be easier'n yer tummy," Zaòrk explained, and Burk thanked him. Holavor groaned.

"Easy on his tummy, but hard on my back!" she grumbled, heading off to grab more beams. Burk climbed inside the tower and began his new job, which was far easier than the old. Slowly the walls built up around him, and by sunset they were already nailing on the roof.

"Whew," one of the other workers sighed, after knocking in the last nail. "That's got ta be some sort o' record: finishing one o' these in a day!"

"Come an' see it from the outside!" Zaòrk called. Burk clambered down the six flights of stairs and out the front opening, then stared up at the finished construction.

"Nice," he commented. From his angle it looked very foreboding.

"Ain't it?" Zaòrk asked. "Now's the fun part. We gotta – I mean getta – paint it."

"With the Eye?" Burk asked.

Holavor rolled her eyes. "No, with bunny rabbits. Didn't you learn about intimidation warfare?"

"Yeah, but I'm just too hungry."

"Hungry? Just this afternoon you were groaning about being too full!"

"I changed my mind," Burk told her. In fact, he was again ravenous. His appetite had returned.

"Supper after we paint, or we ain't gonna be able ta see," Zaòrk cried. The sun had set, but there was still some light. Zaòrk ran to get paint, and returned with a metal can full of deep red paint.

They hurriedly painted the Eye, a symbol Burk knew so well he could have painted it with his eyes closed. Fortunately this skill helped him, as it was growing quickly dark, and they could barely see. Holavor ran off to get a lantern, but by the time she returned they had finished.

"Good," Zaòrk said, and passed out food, not bothering to wait for the inspector. Burk ate slowly, making sure not to stuff himself. As he chewed slowly on the succulent man-flesh, straight from the recent wars, he allowed his mind to wander, and let the restfulness of the moment overcome him.

He was exhausted, but glad to be back on duty, preparing for war. He was pleased to again be on the battlefield, which was where he belonged, not in some grimy jungle in eastern Mordor. He sighed as he recalled the journey to Dorezátz, wondering briefly where Largg was, and how his friend was doing. Burk told himself that there was no need to be concerned. Largg was doing fine, and Burk looked forward to meeting him again in the battlefield, even if all the hosts of Gondor stood between.


	35. Chapter 35

**XXXV**

**Largg**

Largg ran quickly back to where his company was loitering. Officer Kerzaque seemed uneasy and impatient to get started.

"There you are!" he cried. "What kept you!"

"Sorry," Largg apologised. "It's…" he hesitated, unwilling to confide his full feelings to the officer. He felt more withdrawn now, and had since he had rejoined the army. The journey through Dorezátz had been of a different nature than his previous adventures, and it had changed, though only slightly, his perception of the world.

Now, however, back in the monotonous routine of army life, his lifestyle was gradually reverting back to how it had been several months ago, before Captain Khentz's mission had affected him. Though the relapse was not complete, as he felt more reserved, and more introverted, than he had before. The time beyond Dorezátz had taken a toll on him, and the continual loss of friends had jaded him and dampened his spirit. The loss of Têrk, his newest close friend had dampened his desire to meet new people.

He now only thought of the past, and his greatest desire was to look backward, and hope to reconstruct what he had once had. He wanted nothing more than the chance to, after the war, reunite with all of his friends, and party more than the world had ever seen.

With difficulty, Largg pulled himself back to the present, as Officer Kerzaque was giving him an odd look. He saluted for good measure.

"Grab a warg," the officer said, motioning to forty or so growling beasts behind him. Largg was surprised that he had not noticed them before.

"Where're they from, sir?" he asked.

"They're lent by the Nazgûl, who control everything in this city. We need to hurry. Sauron has received some sort of pressing news!"

"What news?" one of the other soldiers asked. Officer Kerzaque glared.

"Later! We've got to ride. Now!"

They hopped on their wargs (Largg picked the last unclaimed warg, a slothful male who he named Dawdlor). They galloped off, Largg trying hard to match his warg's pace with the others, while at the same time anxious to avoid excessive use of the whip. Dawdlor was just very leisurely, and didn't seem to get that they were rushing.

They rode out of the gate and across the bridge, the scenery fleeting by. Before long Minas Morgul was lost to sight, and the sky darkened from gray to black. Still the multitudes of tress and hills of Ithilien flew by. Southward they travelled for many hours without speaking. And the further they went, the lighter the air seemed to feel. Largg felt some of the gloom, associated with the loss of Burk, Têrk, Sheglock, Mark, Robert, and all the others, lift away.

"It feels nicer here," he commented when they, at last, rested.

"The cloud's less thick here," Officer Kerzaque replied, hearing his comment. "We're travelling away from Barad-dûr."

The other soldier who had spoken before the left then came up to the officer. "Sir, what news?" he repeated eagerly.

"I don't know," he replied testily. "I'm no news orc."

"Any hint?" the soldier persisted. Largg smiled at the scene. The soldier looked very much the inquisitive and nagging child.

"Isengard," he responded. "Saruman might have the Ring. And if he does, our mission is useless."

"What's our mission?" Largg asked.

The officer glared, clearly tired of all the questions. "I briefed everyone when you were gone. I'm going to sleep. If you want, ask one of your comrades. Now, good night."

He marched off, and Largg turned to the other soldier. "'Scuse me?"

"What?" he grumbled.

"What're we gonna do?"

"You joking? You've got to be pretty dumb if you really don't have a clue!"

"I wasn't there," Largg explained, feeling insulted.

"Well, okay then. We're going to join the sailors in Lebennin. Do you know where that is?"

His tone sounded sarcastic, so Largg nodded, though truthfully he had no idea. The other soldier guessed this. "Where?"

"South," Largg guessed, and the other orc sighed.

"Alright, so you at least got a _clue_, even if only a pathetic one. I'm sorry if I assumed that you were stupid. It's just that most orcs are."

He seemed more sincere, but Largg still felt reluctant to become amicable toward him.

"I'm not sure about that…"

"They speak akin to: 'Ya gimme da meat or I gonna slit yer throat' and such, never using proper grammar. That's a habit even _I've_ picked up, to some degree. But I can't stand stupid people, or brainless conversation."

"I'm sorry," Largg said.

"Don't be. You aren't nearly as bad as most others."

"What's yer name?" Largg asked after as brief pause, in attempt to restart the conversation. The other orc looked affronted.

"Try that again. What's _your_ name."

"Largg," Largg replied. Then, when the other orc groaned and rolled his eyes, Largg realised his mistake. "Sorry."

"Take it all back! You're not as bad as the others! You're _worse_ than they are!"

"What's your name," Largg asked, enunciating carefully.

"Karenaskóra. And don't even try to remember it. You'll just butcher it and sound even dumber. Call me Kareen."

"Right," Largg replied, too nervous to add anything else. Kareen laughed.

"I'll be going off to bed now. Maybe I'll see you in the morning, if I decide you're not a total waste of time. Maybe not."

"Good night." Largg said, trying his best to ignore the rudeness, and not take offence. Kareen saluted him and walked off. Largg sighed, then went off himself to the tents that had just recently been set up.

The company continued down the road over the next several days. They rode quickly, as though the war had already begun. Largg wondered whether it had, and where his friends all were.

Thinking of friends, he sighed. After Têrk, he had not been able to find any close friends, and he was lonely. Kareen was sometimes friendly, but always critical, and seldom spoke to Largg about day-to-day events. Largg felt as though he couldn't be himself around him, and that made him uncomfortable.

Still they travelled onward, and Largg grew tired of the tedious hours. Dawdlor carried him forward at his own pace, and Largg gave up trying to make him stay up with the rest. Slowly he began to fall behind, and he grew accustomed to riding slightly behind the rest of the company.

They travelled slowly west, further from the Ephel Dúath, and as Largg watched Mordor slip further behind, he felt a peculiar sensation of complete loneliness. The road curved around and brought them closer to the Anduin, and further from his home. The country grew wilder, and they met several companies of dark-skinned Men, marching north. But these were unfriendly, many of them apparently mercenaries (or so Kareen claimed), simply aiding Sauron for riches, and not out of loyalty. They seldom paused to speak to the orcs.

The third (or fourth, Largg had lost count) day dawned, and Largg could see a crossroads ahead, where the road curved again away from the great river. Largg had lost all sense of his position in Middle Earth. He dared to ask Kareen, and the reply was predictable.

"You don't know?"

"I didn't study southern geography in school," Largg replied.

"Then you didn't go. In my hometown we learned all about Harad, south Ithilien, and Gondor."

"Where did ya go to school?"

"Well, I _was_ in Erranór, but still… You know where _that_ is, right?"

Truthfully, Largg knew little about the geography outside of his province of Gorgoroth. "South of Gorgoroth'?" he guessed.

"No, it's in the north," Kareen replied.

"Sorry," Largg said, embarrassed, only too late realising Kareen's sarcasm.

Kareen groaned again. "Of course it's in the south, stupid! You don't even know the setup of our own country?"

Largg left, feeling even more embarrassed and confused, and with his question still unanswered.

They rode quickly toward the crossing, but turned off the road well before reaching it. Instead they cut across the open country for some time, as the road curved inconveniently ahead, and the terrain was easy to traverse. It was mainly desert, hot even in the early spring, and they rode faster than usual, eager to be out of the scorching land. Eventually, as they neared the river again, the land grew more fertile, and they found the road again. Largg assumed that Officer Kerzaque knew the geography of these lands.

The next day they came to a bridge, just north of where two great rivers met. The bridge was clearly the work of Gondor, and had fallen somewhat into decay, but it was still vast and strong. Over the turbulent river they rode, and Largg marvelled at the vast amounts of water roaring below him.

"It's even more treacherous downstream," Kareen explained. "The Sirith meets the Anduin just south of here, and the two form one enormous stream."

"It's already very strong here. How are the sailors going to row up it?"

Kareen shrugged. "That will simply take a great deal of brute strength," he replied.

Soon after crossing the Anduin, they came to a second bridge, in worse condition than the first. Largg assumed that this river was the Sirith that Kareen had mentioned. They rode swiftly across it, Largg worrying that the bridge might not manage to hold their weight.

"Welcome to Gondor," Officer Kerzaque said when they had crossed. "You are officially in Denethor's land, and without the leave of the Steward. Any Men you meet are an immediate threat – they will try to kill you without hesitation. Likewise you should not hesitate to kill them. Show no mercy."

"Wasn't planning to," Kareen whispered to Largg.

"What's that, Karenaskóra?" the officer asked.

"Why are you telling us this, sir?" he asked.

Officer Kerzaque shrugged. "I was just warning anyone who might be – er – squeamish about killing."

"I hope we all hate Men unconditionally, and would never dream of showing them mercy," Kareen replied.

Officer Kerzaque did not say anything to that, but simply began the day's ride.

Quite possibly because there was nothing more to say.


	36. Chapter 36

**XXXVI**

**Robert**

It was day, and Bob stared fretfully upward at the cloudy sky, fearing that the sun would somehow break through and petrify him. It was as if he was trapped beneath the surface of the great sea, and he knew that any leak in the roof above would cause him to drown. Captain Moldörsch caught his uneasy glance.

"Don't worry," he commanded, his gravelly voice almost reprimanding. "Sauron has command of the skies as well as all else. All of Mordor is under His dominion."

"That I wouldn't doubt," Bob replied sullenly, looking behind him to a landscape as dark as a starless night, lit only by the lamplike flicker of Orodruin. He had grown to thoroughly dislike the orc captain, ever since they had met. Though it was against his belief to hate, he could not entirely suppress the feeling.

They had marched many days under the stone-gray skies, across the lifeless, petrified plains. Here there was no inspiration. Here there was no place for poetry. Bob tried to remember the last time that Mark had sung one of his poems. It had been near the beginning of the march, and Captain Moldörsch had been furious.

"Never let me catch you singing poetry again!" he had screamed as though he were being attacked by wild-men. Since the episode, Mark had complied, though he had become sullen, and retreated into himself, as though the captain's rejection had not been of his poetry, but of him. In more ways than one, it had.

They were now approaching the Black Gate, about to leave the nest Mordor for the very first time, and likely the last. Seeing the monstrous structure before him, reaching high to the coal-dark fumes above, Bob felt despair conquer his heart.

"I never thought I'd see something' that I couldn't write a poem 'bout," Mark sighed, staring upwards at the great black iron, and the towers beside, thorns in the flesh of the earth itself, built long ago, Bob had heard, by Gondor, as a prison for Sauron. Indeed it was still a prison, not of the body, but of the heart.

"And you never thought you'd leave the country," Bob added.

"Nay. I 'oped I would stay 'ere all my life…"

"What do you think will 'appen to us?" Bob asked slowly. Mark sighed and retreated a ways from the party of orcs.

"Let's talk over 'ere. I wanna get as far from Moldörsch as I can. And all those orcs, that treat us as monsters, or worse, Men. But as ta us, I don't rightly know."

"Do you expect to… survive?"

Mark sighed, and Bob could tell that he had also thought a great deal about death.

"Nay, I don't. I don't 'spect ta ever return to our ole cave. But that ain't the worst o' my worries."

"Well then, tell me! Cleanse yourself."

Mark laughed, but it felt hollow like empty armour, less hearty than the laughter of gaiety, or of lightness of heart. "Cleanse myself? Of what, my friend?"

"Your 'eart is heavy."

"No, the burden lies on my soul. It 'as been constrained, unable to speak…"

"But you can speak though your poems,"

"And I 'ave been forbidden to sing them."

Bob sighed, feeling his friend's ailment sharply, like a knife-prick in his own flesh. Mark needed to write poetry like others needed food and air. "Come, then," he whispered softly, his voice fluttering away on the light wind. "One last poem."

Mark sighed also, staring up forlornly at the lead blanket of darkness that was weighing him down, even as it sheltered him from the immobilising rays of the sun. "To what purpose?" he asked, voice dampened by the enveloping gloom.

"Not to be heard," Bob whispered into his ear. "Not to be sung. But for your inner, your 'igher self, to express itself. To explain itself. To reveal itself at last before Sauron, invincible, till all else falls."

"I admire yer eloquence," Mark said sullenly, "but I don't see it that way."

"What don't you see?"

Mark paused for a long time, opening his mouth and closing it, as if the very words were being stolen from his chest even as he struggled to press them out. At last he muttered, haltingly and chokingly, "I'll tell you."

Bob nodded slowly, kindly, as a mother waiting to hear her child's woes. But Mark gasped and went on.

"I'll tell ya, but through paper, not speech. My speech is constrained, under command of Sauron, as is all else I own. There's only one thing 'ere that is not goin' to the war." He held up his long, crow-feather pen, now wholly frayed and dirty from hundreds of years' work. It had been Mark's pen for as long as Bob could remember, and only Mark's excellent care and attention to it that had preserved it through all his years. He never went anywhere without it, wrote poetry with anything else. "I _will_ write a poem. One last poem. And from then I shall set down the pen fer good. One last poem, 'fore I pass through these gates ta go out ta war…" He sighed, and looked toward the ground, unwilling to speak any further.

"I think it will help you," Bob said. He fished some parchment from his rucksack, saved in case Mark had ever felt like composing a poem on paper. He also handed his friend a bottle of ink, brought for the same purpose.

"May I watch?" Bob asked.

Mark nodded. "But don't read it 'till I've finished."

Bob watched as his friend slowly began writing, hesitantly at first, the pen shaking in his hand. Then a transformation began, and Bob saw the hardness in his friends heart melt away, melting out onto the paper before him. He saw as Mark took comfort from the familiarity of his writing, and began to speed up, diffident no more. The pen flew across the page. Line by line, letter by letter, the words of the poem formed themselves.

At length Mark stopped suddenly, looked up, and slowly put the cap on the bottle of ink. Speechlessly he raised his pen before him, staring deep and hard into it, a single tear glistening like silver on his cheek. He lifted the pen before him, raised it up, and softly broke it in two. Both pieces fell to the ground, forsaken to the dust of the Morannon.

Mark gave the paper to Bob.

He slowly began reading.

_This is my last poem.__  
Henceforth no more shall I set the pen to the paper, and let the thoughts flow from my hand.__  
Henceforth no more shall I see, in the crystal freshness of the first raindrop, aught more than a raindrop.__  
Henceforth no more shall I feel the inspiration of the new day.  
Day is dead. Sauron has conquered It._

_Now I stand on the threshold of a new era of darkness,  
A darkness which my King has created.  
A darkness brewed for the sake of trolls,  
Like myself,__  
Any yet so unalike._

_They do not mourn the loss of day, as I do.  
They hated day, I did not.  
They would rather have eternal night, but I do not._

_For I know there must be day with night, light with darkness.  
Good could not exist without evil  
Nor evil without good.  
Love cannot exist but for hate and jealousy  
Nor could jealousy exist; but for love._

_Perhaps even peace could not exist without war…_

_But as I go off, to fight in a war, to fight for the unending darkness, my heart opens.  
Previously my soul was constrained by metre, form, and rhyme.  
Now, under impending doom, he breaks forth!  
Now my soul speaks freely!_

_I shall be put to the test.  
In these wars, I may be killed, and my body may break.  
Or I may kill another, and destroy my soul.  
What shall it be?  
Do I have strength to stand at the edge of the storm, a pacifist, and conquer my flesh?  
Or shall my body conquer my soul, and kill the attacker,  
And shed blood through these hands,  
And make all my beliefs, all my aspirations, all I stand for,  
Into hypocrisy?_

_To that I have no answer._


	37. Chapter 37

**XXXVII**

**Morrick**

They left the trolls' cave quickly. Sheglock seemed to be overcome by grief, and said nothing as he mounted Merân. Morrick was concerned about his brother, but unwilling to delay. Already he could see a great black mist hovering above them, blowing in from Gorgoroth. Was it a sign that the war had begun?

Worried that they may be too late, he spurred them on, though his brother seemed physically unable to ride any faster than a canter. Over the course of an hour, Morrick frequently found that Sheglock had fallen behind, and consequently had to stop suddenly and wait for him. Finally, Firri pulled him over.

"He can't do this," she hissed in a whisper, gesturing toward Sheglock.

"I know," Morrick replied, who was well aware of the problem. "He's distraught."

"Over those trolls," Firri added, sighing. "We both know he loved them, even if we felt the opposite. Maybe I speak for myself only, but I am personally glad they are gone."

Morrick hurriedly shushed her, as he heard Sheglock approaching.

"Hey, bro!" he called as his brother sullenly walked toward them, eyes downcast.

"I heard that," Sheglock muttered. "And I don't care. I know you hate art. I don't care." His voice was not angry, but it lacked emotion altogether, and was extremely unsettling.

Firri started, seemingly surprised more by his tone and reaction than by being overheard. Morrick, however, understood, and knew that his brother was furious, sick of the whole ordeal. "I didn't mean—" Firri began, before she was abruptly cut off.

"You asked Mark to shut up every time he began one of his poems. You tried to hurry us out of their house months ago, when we were travelling to Dorezátz. You insult Mark's poetry at every opportunity. Don't lie to me!"

This time, Morrick was taken aback (and so, apparently, was Firri). Sheglock had always been quick to anger. But, while Morrick had become accustomed to Sheglock's moping, he had never seen his brother this upset. Normally, when provoked past his breaking point, he went from moping to yelling, but now he seemed to have reached a third stage altogether, one of deep depression, apathy, languor, and ennui. He was too distraught, it seemed, to even care about the world anymore.

"I'm leaving," Sheglock said evenly, almost detachedly, as though he had already left. "I'm going to see Ulûrk. I'll travel to Garkhôn, and maybe on to Barad-dûr, if I have the whim."

"What – why?" Morrick cried, more in distress than in surprise.

"Because you don't care," Sheglock said softly. "Because you think that Sauron is more important than love, or friendship. Because you are _wrong_!"

With that last assertion, Sheglock let out a yell, to Morrick or to Merân, the former could not tell, and bolted off down the path toward his town.

No one spoke several minutes after Sheglock's sudden departure. Morrick dispiritedly resumed the journey west, following a ways behind his brother, who he could see down the road, already far ahead of them, as a small speck. Firri rode beside him, but Morrick ignored her, lost in his own thoughts; stunned by his brother's blatant disloyalty, yet wondering whether there might yet be any truth to his words.

Eventually Firri spoke. "I'm sorry…"

"It's not your fault," Morrick replied. "I think your comment just tipped him over the edge. He's been getting more and more frustrated with me lately."

Firri sighed, but didn't respond. They rode the rest of the day without mentioning the matter further.

At sundown they came to the tops of the cliffs, and saw that the entire province of Gorgoroth was covered in a thick black smoke. "Now we can hurry!"  
Morrick yelled, and sped up. For several hours after sunset they rode on, coming, by the day's end, within several leagues of the great capital.

They rested that night, and waited until dawn of the next day to begin again. That morning Firri was acting odd. She seemed to have something she wanted to say to Morrick, but was unable, for whatever reason, to vocalise it. He presumed that it was related to Sheglock's riding off the other day.

"What?" Morrick asked her, but Firri shrugged it off.

They began riding again, but in minutes they were stopped by the arrival of a news-orc. Since they had heard no news for over a month, they hailed him eagerly – too aware that they had been isolated in Dorezátz.

"Good day," he said, checking his horse, and turning to face them. "I presume you would like to hear my tale."

"Yes," Morrick and Firri said in unison.

"We've had no news of our King," Morrick added. "How does Sauron fare? Has He yet reclaimed the Ring?"

"The Nazgûl saw a hobbit in Saruman's Palantír," he began. "They assumed, of course, that Saruman had captured Baggins. So they flew to Isengard, crossing the Anduin the first time since they travelled to the Shire long ago."

"And did Saruman give It over?"

"Well, when the Nazgûl arrived, just yesterday, they found a surprise. Isengard was destroyed."

Morrick was shocked by this, and deeply unsettled. He had always expected _Sauron_ to destroy Isengard, when the time came. Who else had the strength to destroy Saruman's fortress?

"How?" cried Firri, evidently just as surprised.

"He, Saruman that is, invoked the wrath of the Ents." the news-orc explained. When this drew blank looks from his two listeners, he went on. "The very trees themselves rose up against him. The _uruks_ were destroyed, and Isengard torn down."

"Well, they _were_ unnatural, weren't they?" Firri asked, seeming to make sense of the bizarre turn of events, though Morrick could not. "The _uruks_, I mean. Weren't they half-breeds of orcs and Men?"

"They were," the news orc replied.

Firri made a face. "What orc would— er, _breed_, with a Man!"

Morrick laughed at her naïveté. "I've heard of far worse than that."

The news-orc was looking even more uncomfortable than Firri. "Uh, do you want to hear about Isengard?" he asked to change the subject.

"Yes," Firri answered. "What happened?"

"Well, these Ents, they got mad, you see. Maybe because of the _uruks_. But anyway, they attacked the city, and tore it down! Apparently, when the Ringwraiths all rushed out there, hoping that Saruman had captured the Ring, they discovered a ruin. The Ents had flooded the entire thing, and ruined all Saruman's machinery."

"What of the Ring?" Morrick asked.

"Well, Saruman claims he never had it. He told the Ringwraiths that his Palantír had been stolen. But he won't let anyone up into Orthanc, so he can't prove this. Still, it matters not, 'cause if Saruman has It, we'll get It eventually. But for our safety we must assume, for the time, that It has gone on to Minas Tirith."

Morrick, upon hearing this, was spurred into greater haste. "That means the war may begin tomorrow!" he cried, suddenly realising that he had no time to chat or listen to the news. "Thanks for the news, but we need to get to Barad-dûr, _now_!"

They waved to the news-orc, who rode off in the opposite direction. Morrick hurried, with renewed purpose and vigour, onward toward the tower. Firri still seemed to be struggling to say something.

"Out with it!" Morrick cried. "Bad news?"

"I hope not," Firri whispered, or at least that was what Morrick heard, but she spoke so quietly that Morrick could barely hear her over the sound of the wind. He wondered briefly whether she was still feeling guilty because of Sheglock.

Morrick shrugged, but dropped it, for they had reached the city's gates. The guard stopped him.

"What's yer business here?"

"I've been summoned," Morrick replied.

"And your wife?" the guard asked. Firri turned very red and hid her face. Morrick smiled, amused at the embarrassed overreaction.

"She's not my wife," Morrick explained. "We were simply on a mission together, with three others, who are not present."

"Very well. Go on."

Morrick thanked him, and they passed through.

A second guard stopped them outside the tower. "Name and business?"

"Morrick, here to aid Sauron in fulfilment of my debt to Him."

"Firri, the same," she replied slowly, almost as though she was about to cry. Morrick wondered – was it still Sheglock, or something worse? Had she received news of a loved one's death? But he was too busy with his own concerns to make room for hers, so he let it drop.

The guard appraised them, muttering "Then go, though I daresay He's too busy to scan you."

"We have nothing to hide," Morrick replied, but they crossed the bridge without incident, and Morrick did not feel the sensation that his brother had described.

Inside, Morrick, still in the mood of urgency and haste, immediately quickly found a captain, and asked him where to go.

"A smith, eh? You'll be working on Grond. We've got plenty o' swordsmiths and armourers, but the ram's understaffed. Almost all the extra smiths're helping."

"I'm a tracker," Firri told him.

He laughed gruffly and unsympathetically. "Get a new job. No enemies make it into here."

Morrick travelled down to the forge, preoccupied, instinctively asking for directions on the way. Firri uncertainly followed. "What should I do?" she asked him at length.

"Be a supervisor," he suggested, somewhat annoyed, as she seemed to disbelieve him every time he insisted she was a good leader. "Something that takes leadership."

Firri groaned. "I swore I'd never lead again."

"Break the vow," Morrick suggested. "It's disloyal to refuse your service to Sauron, and if you were born to lead, lead."

"Where could I ever get a job like that?" Firri wondered. Morrick shrugged.

"Ask around. It's not so hard rise up the ladder, if you're competent."

"Thanks," she muttered.

Morrick turned toward the door to the forge. "See you around."

"Wait!" Firri cried.

"What is it?"

"Will you m—" She froze, looking horrified.

"Yes?"

Firri blushed. "Will you meet me at the main gate, er, when you're done, and, er, we can talk about the day?"

"Sure," Morrick responded, wondering how on Middle Earth that could be so embarrassing. Firri marched off angrily, though Morrick had no clue what there was to be angry about.

He pushed open the forge door, and descended into a warm dungeon. In the centre was a large battering ram, and twenty or so smiths were working around it. Morrick was nervous – it was his first real time in the trade, the first time he would be working without Ulûrk's supervision. And, to make it worse, he was assigned to work on one of Sauron's great tools. He hoped the long abstinence from work, and his illness, had not reduced his adroitness.

"Where can I help?" he called out, and was promptly given instructions. Quickly he set to work, glad at last to be aiding Sauron, and his country. The ram was mostly complete, but they were just adding the finishing touches.

Several other orcs entered the forge, bearing metal sculptures, which the smiths welded to the structure. One of the sculptors hung around, and on a break Morrick went over to him, intrigued to speak to another artist, and reminded of his brother.

"Good day."

"I'd say The same to you, if it were true. But it is only night now, so one ought to say 'good night.' Or does this cloud not settle on your heart?"

"I haven't been under it long," Morrick replied, assuming he was referring to the black smoke above Gorgoroth.

"It quells the inspiration," the other replied. Morrick laughed.

"You sound like my brother! He's really into art…" Morrick trailed off, remembering Sheglock's last words to him.

"I haven't introduced myself. I'm Iarék, and I'm an artist."

"I'm Morrick, a smith," Morrick replied, offering his hand. "Good to meet you."

"I was very glad to come here and find a use for my talents," Iarék said. "I can make art for Sauron Himself, and, even if He doesn't appreciate it for its sake, He tolerates it…"

Just then, before Morrick could reply, the foreman called them back to work. Morrick felt jolted, oddly, as though suddenly waking from a dream. He had fallen into almost a contemplative mood during the brief conversation, and had begun to wonder about art, and its utter impracticality. Was it okay, he was wondering, to do something, for a job, that had no practical value? Should artists be paid the same as smiths, or awarded the same favour? He shrugged, and, with effort, pulled himself out of his funny mood, and returned to his work.


	38. Chapter 38

**XXXVIII**

**Firri**

Ever since he had pulled her aside, that day, so long ago now, on the fringe of the Dorezátzean jungle, Firri had found herself overcome with an admiration and infatuation with Morrick. Ever since he had taught her so much about responsibility, she had a high respect of him, and that respect had become love. And, since their departure from Alzág, Firri had been trying to make herself propose to Morrick. She really wanted to, because there was no other orc in all of Middle Earth she would have wanted to be her husband. She felt obligated, because she had promised Kâlask that she would, in the least, ask. But she could not bring herself to do so. She hesitated, not for fear of impropriety, but for fear that he would refuse her, and she would be left with nothing. She knew this, but she simply told herself that the right opportunity had not yet arisen.

Right after Sheglock went into the trolls' cave, she had decided to at last do it. But then Morrick had suddenly turned sympathetic, and showed unexpected care to Sheglock. Firri, eager for an excuse from her rash resolution, baulked, telling herself that she did not want to interrupt him then.

After Sheglock left, she couldn't do it, as Morrick was clearly upset by his brother, and his final accusation. Firri apologised, but Morrick too it too lightly. It was eerily similar to his reaction to her apology outside Alzág, when Firri had at last admitted her incompetence as a leader. She had not taken his triviality seriously, but instead had vowed never to lead again, knowing that his reaction had concealed deep reproach. She realised that was Morrick's way to display shame – taking it lightly. He was probably furious at her for causing Sheglock to head off.

Outside of the Great City, she was once again ready to ask. Or, at least, she had thought she was. But she just mumbled quietly.

"Out with it!" Morrick yelled in anger. "Bad news?"

"I hope not," Firri whispered, stunned by his tone, and trying not to cry. He was clearly furious at her, probably over Sheglock. And, if that was not bad enough, he didn't seem to like her at all. He had never shown her any affection. She wondered if she should even bother to ask, when his response was so predictable.

They continued up toward the guard by the gates of the City, Firri feeling hopeless.

"What's yer business here?" the guard asked Morrick, who Firri made sure was in front, leading.

"I've been summoned," he replied.

"And your wife?" the guard asked.

Firri was taken aback, and felt vaguely as though the breath had been knocked out of her. The stupid guard didn't know how much she wished his assumption was true. She blushed, willing Morrick not to protest, and he gave her a disapproving look.

"She's not my wife," Morrick said evenly, heartlessly shattering her fantasy. How romantic would it have been for him to reply elsewise? "My _wife_ and I are travelling here, together." Morrick had just been given the supreme opportunity for a romantic proposal, and he had let it go. Firri could find only one explanation – he didn't _want_ to marry her.

Firri paid little attention as they crossed through the city, and into the Tower itself. Inside they found a captain, and Morrick was quickly assigned his new duties. Firri was unwanted.

"Get a new job," the captain had advised her with a sneer.

Morrick travelled down to the forge, asking directions on the way, and completely ignoring Firri. She wondered if he intended to even remain friends. Did he hate her that much?

Finally, tentatively, she spoke up. "What should I do?" she asked, fearing his outrage. He responded lightly, which Firri knew was his way of expressing disapproval.

"Be a supervisor," Morrick suggested, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Something that takes _leadership_." He put an emphasis on this last word, as though to remind her just how poorly she made decisions.

Firri groaned in frustration, furious at his poking fun at her. "I swore I'd never lead again," she told him, to let him know she was not deceived. He wasn't going to convince her to make a fool of herself.

"Break the vow," he said carelessly. "It's disloyal to refuse your service to Sauron, and if you were born to lead, lead."

"Where could I ever get a job like that?" Firri wondered, wondering more why he was simply toying with her, when he hated her so much. Morrick shrugged.

"Ask around. It's not so hard rise up the ladder, if you're competent."

"Thanks," she muttered, not mistaking his last words. "_If_ you're competent." Well, he knew that she definitely wasn't.

Morrick turned toward the door to the forge. "See you around," he said, sounding as though he intended to leave permanently.

"Wait!" Firri cried, desperate, knowing that, in the vastness of Sauron's Fortress, she could very well never see him again. She impulsively decided to give it a try. There was nothing to lose. If she didn't ask now, she never would.

"What is it?" Morrick asked, annoyed at her interruption, and clearly ardent to get away from her as soon as he could.

"Will you marry me?" she tried to ask, but faded to a mumble just before "marry".

"Yes?" Morrick asked, with a pretence of patience.

Firri blushed, unable to do it. She was unable to hear the rejection from his lips, knowing that it would forever destroy her fantasies and dreams through the years to come. "Will you meet me at the main gate, er, when you're done, and, er, we can talk about the day?" she stuttered, improvising quickly. At least she'd give herself another chance. Unless, of course, he lacked the decency to grant her even that small favour.

"Sure," Morrick replied, incredibly managing to disguise the disgust from his voice. Firri marched off angrily, furious at her own failure. How could she not manage to ask so simple a question? How had she, the orc who had once had the gumption to do anything, become so nervous, so unwilling to take chances?

She got a job that day sweeping the stables, and it was tedious work. But Firri knew it was her own fault. If she hadn't twice screwed up in a role of leadership, she would have a more satisfying job. She had had her chance, and had blown it.

She sighed as the sun set, and set down the broom. Then she went back inside, after receiving two silver coins for her day's work. _Not bad pay for a janitor,_ she thought, distractedly, not really caring. She meandered back toward the main gate, and waited. She doubted that Morrick would actually come.

Then she saw him, string up toward her. She was immediately furious with her doubt.

"What's wrong," he asked.

"I doubted you would show," she said in a small voice, expecting Morrick's wrath. She knew how much he hated disloyalty.

"Why wouldn't I?" he asked, genuinely puzzled, and Firri was surprised. Did he not know that she knew that he hated her?

Or had she simply been reading too much into his actions?

"Do you hate me?" she asked slowly, deciding to start there. Again, Morrick's bewilderment did not appear feigned.

"Why would I hate you?" he asked. Firri was confused, and eventually conceded that he was a superb actor. He seemed so sincere!

"You've been mad at me all day!" she told him, making sure he knew he would not get away with his deception. He needed to know that she was not _stupid_.

Morrick, to her surprise, nodded. She hadn't expected him to admit to it so readily. In a way, she was crushed, because part of her – a diminutive, almost inconsequential part – had been hoping that, somehow, that he still loved her, even if just as a friend.

"I've been angry all day – that's true," Morrick said slowly, looking deep into her eyes. "_But not at you!_ I've been furious at my brother, and at _my_ mistakes. _Not at you!_ Have you been misreading me all day?" He smiled at her in a bemused sort of way.

Firri felt as through a great wave of pure, fresh water had come roaring over her, sweeping away all that she had believed before, and purging her heart of all the fear and resentment that had been accumulating within it. And, as the immense relief broke over her, she felt as though she were starting a new day – all that she had assumed before was lost to memory, as she realised that Morrick had never despised her. She _had_ been reading too far into him, and she had been utterly wrong – and for once was glad to have been.

"So you still love me!" Firri cried in exuberant reassurance. But she cut off instantly after the words had escaped her mouth, freezing in horror. Appalled, she realised he had never said anything about _loving_ her. She stared silently at the ground as she waited nervously for his reaction.

"Yes," Morrick said, with a small smile, and Firri tentatively looked up toward his charming face, and met his eyes, daring to hope. "And I now suspect I know the reason you've been acting so odd recently," he said warm-heartedly.

"You didn't know?" she asked disbelievingly. The whole time, had he really been missing her obvious cues? "I thought you just, er, didn't want to!"

"I've been preoccupied," he laughed. "Very much so! And also, my dear, you need to remember that guys are generally clueless. You have to ask a question to a man's face, or he won't know what you're asking."

"So, will you?" Firri asked, making sure to make it explicit. She took a deep breath, and finally forced out the words that had been caught in her throat for the past few days. "Will you marry me?" Firri stared at him, unable to believe that her moment had finally come – that she had finally asked.

"I can't believe it," Morrick laughed again, seemingly as shocked by Firri's action as she was. "You're so daring – so assertive, and so willing to take risks! But you have this much trouble asking a four-word question! Did you really think the answered would be 'no'? I've never seen anyone mature quicker than you did, or step up more responsibly when your decisions went awry. Few orcs admit to their mistakes. You are one of the few, honest, loyal, and all else I could ever want." He paused, and, seeing that she was still looking at him expectantly, let out an emphatic "Yes! Yes, I would want no other orc to be my wife!"

Firri was overcome, and, not for the first time that day, unable to breathe. She was suffused with joy and amazement, and eternally thankful that she had finally proposed. She hadn't known that Morrick had respected her so much. And his words, genuine and honest, meant a lot to her. Firri struggled to find words of her own to express her thousand swirling emotions.

"I… of course… thank you!" she stuttered, unable to articulate her eternal gratitude.

Morrick smiled. "You seem surprised," he noted.

"I am – no I mean I'm not. Well… er, I was worried. Maybe I'd been misreading you, but I was getting, er, bad vibes."

"From me!" Morrick exclaimed in mock astonishment. Firri laughed – it all seemed so stupid, so trivial, now.

"When we get home, we'll make it official," she said. "And I'll get you a ring."

Morrick smiled. "Traditionally, for those who follow the custom of ring-giving, the male proposes, and the burden of a ring is laid on him. _I_ will get you one – I'll forge it myself, just for you, as soon as I find the time. I met a funny orc in the forge, Iarék, but he's an artist, and can help design your—"

He broke off, because at that moment the bells rang out from the topmost turret. A long wail rose from far above.

Then a scream came from behind them. "The heir of Elendil!"

Instantly Morrick spun around. The orc who had screamed was running toward them. She was one of the higher-ranking attendants, and was running toward the gate, having come all the way, Firri suspected, from the top towers.

"What?" Morrick cried, along with many others. The official paused at the gate and addressed the large group of orcs who had gathered there within the past few seconds.

"The heir of Elendil revealed himself just minutes ago to Lord Sauron the Great! I cannot describe His dismay – our country's alarm, upon learning that such a Man still lives! He named himself Aragorn, the _Ellesar_, son of Arathorn. Out of the North he comes, and as we speak he rides to Minas Tirith, coming victorious from Rohan, after wining the war with Saruman. The Ring is surely with him!"

"We knew tha' there was some sorta dev'lry goin' on with Sar'man's downfall!" a spectator near Firri muttered. "It oughta've been he, with the One!"

"Sauron will waste no time now," the guard continued. "Next comes the test: He will march His troops to Gondor. Speed is His only weapon now. With grace, may He triumph over this King, and against His own Ring.

"The war has begun."


	39. Chapter 39

**XXXIX**

**Ulûrk**

Ulûrk stayed several days at the city of Minas Morgul, and gradually he began to feel comfortable there. He was away from home, but the hollow feeling of detachment was not novel, as, ever since his friends' departure, his home had not felt so homely. Moreover, being away from home meant that he was away from Captain Khentz. Sir Dalscez was also gone; he had left earlier to return to Garkhôn. Zhatren was less annoying, either because the incident in the tunnel had changed Zhatren himself, maturing him, or because it had changed Ulûrk's perception of him. Either way, Ulûrk found that he was far more sympathetic to the kid now, and less disposed to be annoyed at him. It occurred to him that he had never really seen things before from the youngster's viewpoint. Overall, all the woes and trials of his life in Garkhôn had been left behind, and Ulûrk felt as though he were starting anew.

Over the days, he had found in the western outskirts of Erranór a town very much reminiscent of his own. The merchants of the Haunted City were alike to all other merchants that Ulûrk had ever known, and soon he was making friends with several. He knew most of the frequenters (though not necessarily by their names), and knew who he could haggle with, and who to avoid. Overall, he was having a great time, and all rumour of war seemed distant, unlikely to affect the imminent future. He was absorbed in the present, truly at peace in the new city, which was so much an unblemished version of the town he had left behind.

Yet still orcs by the hundreds poured into the vast fortress, and the Nazgûl frequently were seen roaming the streets. Catapults were wheeled down the public alleys, and swords and mail were piled against the walls. Easterlings and the dark Men of Harad poured in, and were quartered in the same barracks as the orcs, an arrangement that Ulûrk found distasteful. Though they seldom spoke of their mission, it was clear that where they lived, war had already begun. Gondor may not have been besieged yet, but Mordor seemed to be at war nonetheless.

However, for several days, Ulûrk was able to rest. The war had not yet come to him. He felt confident that, when it did, he would be ready. And, at the time he was satisfied, so he did not allow concern to enter his thoughts. He did not contemplate what lay ahead, and, indeed, in the moment, he had no desire to go out and fight.

Zhatren, however, seemed to feel exactly the opposite, and he grew increasingly anxious. He began to return toward his former, annoying self, or so it seemed to ulurk, and he recently had taken to trailing Ulûrk around the city. "I can't wait it's gonna be so exciting to fight real Men they're so bad we getta be heroes I'm so ready are you?"

"No," Ulûrk grunted in reply, and, amazingly, Zhatren shut up.

The next day dawned like any other, late, because the sun had to make her way over the Ephel Dúath before shining onto the bleak city. And the light was short lived, for the cloud of smoke obscured the sun entirely soon after sunrise. Ulûrk sighed, having enjoyed the brief glimmer of light. Now all was black and quiet, the onl light from the city, which still exuded its wan, phosphorescent glow.

Ulûrk was not short on supplies, and was, most unusually, not in the mood for haggling. Ulûrk wondered at himself, uncertain of the cause of his sudden lethargy. He was feeling a strange mix of emotions – a desire to act, yet an inability to do so – a fear of what the war might bring. Death, that was certain. But Ulûrk feared less for his own life than that of others. Zhatren's in particular – the kid was far too young to die!

_Shut up,_ Ulûrk told himself. _Sauron's forces are a hundred times stronger than Gondor's. No one's gonna die._

He hung around the main hall for a while, though he knew this made him an easy target for Zhatren. Sure enough, within half an hour, the kid ambled over.

"You ready to go?" he asked excitedly, albeit nervously. Ulûrk guessed the sentence was of a record conciseness for him.

"Yeah."

"Me too you can't know how amazed I am that we're really getting to fight!"

"I reckon I can," Ulûrk muttered. "I can see yer enthusiasm. How d'ya keep it up, with this darkness and all?"

Zhatren shrugged. "Honestly I don't know it's just how I am you know I'm always excited my mother used to hate it probably the reason she was so glad when I left."

Ulûrk frowned. "Don't say that, kid," he said, whilst empathising exquisitely with Zhatren's mother.

"When's the war starting?" Zhatren asked abruptly. Another record sentence.

"Soon, I'd expect," Ulûrk replied. "I gotta go and get some last minute supplies at the market." His normal passion for haggling had suddenly returned. Zhatren nodded, waved and began to walk off.

But suddenly, the kid paused, staring wide-eyed to his side. He scampered back to Ulûrk's side. "Oh my gosh he's here the Nazgûl king oh no what do I do!"

Ulûrk stared, and, sure enough, the Witch King was walking towards them. Intimidated, Ulûrk saluted respectfully as he passed. And as the King's black robe billowed past him, Ulûrk felt instantly overwhelmed by a might greater and mightier than any natural force of Middle Earth. Zhatren quailed, and Ulûrk bowed his head in submission.

The Ringwraith strode straight by toward the main gate, and Ulûrk and Zhatren humbly joined the throng of orcs following him. When the Nazgûl-chief reached the mighty doors, he turned and addressed the crowd. "Now is our time!" he called, and by some spell his voice reverberated, not only through the vast and crowded antechamber, but throughout the entire city. He paused, and all the hustle died down. Every orc in the city stopped and listened. "Now I call you, soldiers of Mordor! Take up your weapons! We march on Gondor!"

Zhatren was visibly jumping, already wholly liberated from the Witch-king's spell. "We're gonna go to war we're gonna go to war we're gonna go…"

The lord of the Ringwraiths waited, while, with amazing speed, all the soldiers assembled themselves along the large main hall. Asking Zhatren to save him a spot, Ulûrk ran back to his room for his bow. They had both had their swords on them at the time of the summons. Then Ulûrk ran swiftly back toward the gate. He smiled in amusement as he realised that he had actually arranged to march next to his fifteen-year-old companion.

_He's gonna need me,_ Ulûrk told himself, convinced that it was fatherly protectiveness, not friendship, that had impelled him to act as he had.

He found Zhatren and took his place, looking around. They were in the front rows, as they had been at the gate during the summons. They had an excellent view of everything, and Zhatren, watching with wide eyes, seemed ready to burst with excitement.

After what seemed only ten minutes, though it must have been an hour or two, they were ready. The Witch King flung the doors open, and led his army out. There was a flash like lightning, and a great shrill scream came from the city behind, chilling Ulûrk to the bones. Slowly they began to march onward.

First the warg-riders exited, then those on foot. From behind, Ulûrk watched as the Nazgûl king proceeded though the gate. Here was one who showed total command. The Witch King seemed invincible.

The city of Minas Morgul slowly drained, as rows upon rows of soldiers marched out. They marched on in rows of ten, and ahead of and behind him Ulûrk heard thousands of others. He felt enormously infinitesimal, a mere dot in a sea of iron helmets. The earth itself grumbled under their heavy steps.

Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, the Ringwraith paused. All his army stood still, and Ulûrk didn't dare even to move his feet, but craned his neck to see. There was a complete silence. Thirty rows of soldiers ahead of Ulûrk, the Witch King seemed to be hesitating.

At length he deemed there to be no threat, and whatever anxiety had overcome him passed. As he turned and rode onward, leading the army down the bridge, Ulûrk wondered what could possibly worry one as mighty as the Nazgûl Lord. However, the thrill and excitement of the prospect of his upcoming first battle soon drove all memory of he incident out of his mind.

They marched for a long while, coming at length to the crossroads, and there they set up a great camp. But their rest was short, and soon they were marching on again, toward Osgiliath.

Ulûrk sighed, legs weary from their incessant use. He felt as though he were walking in a dream. He could scarcely believe that, after so long spent waiting and preparing, the war really had begun.

He had not expected it to begin so soon, or so suddenly. But now that he was out under the smoggy night sky, beneath Sauron's cloak of utter darkness, his fate was resolved. There was no turning back.

Ulûrk was going to war.


	40. Chapter 40

**XL**

**Burk**

Burk awoke to darkness, and instantly tried to fall back asleep, assuming he had awoken before the sun. But he was bothered by the yell of Officer Duérkon. "Get up – all of you! It's past dawn!"

Burk reluctantly crawled out of the ruined house in which he had slept, and stared up at the grey sky. It looked stormy, but Burk knew better. The cloud from Orodruin had at last covered Gondor.

"When are we marching onward?" Burk asked the officer, who was staring out across the River Anduin. He laughed.

"You're not marching onward anywhere yet. The first battle will be right here."

"At Osgiliath?" Burk asked in surprise, looking around. The city looked dead and deserted, devoid of Men.

"Yes. Already we have word from the Nazgûl that the Steward Denethor is sending his son Faramir down here, to try and defend the city. We will begin the battle soon. Prepare yourself – it may be that we cross the river ere noon."

Burk thanked him and hurried off to sharpen his sword.

When he arrived he found he was not the only one who had just now learned of the imminent battle. There was a long queue of orcs (and a few Men, many of them Easterlings) before the grinding wheel. Burk joined the queue, and spoke to the burly orc waiting just in front of him.

"Why're we rushing all of a sudden?"

"Ya haven't heard?" the orc asked in reply.

"Nope," Burk replied, puzzled.

"Jus' yesterday, the heir ta Elendil revealed 'imself ta Sauron."

Burk started. "He exists!"

The other orc shrugged. "'parently." He then abruptly stepped forward to sharpen his blade, leaving Burk in shock. How could such bad fortune come to Mordor?

"Move," the orc behind him grunted, and Burk realised that he was next at the grinding wheel. He quickly stepped forward and ground the sword's edge, then returned to Officer Duérkon's camp.

He was given his lunch rations (which were meagre, though the cook promised the upcoming battle would provide fresh meat). Then he was loaded, along with the rest off his company, onto a large raft. Soon all the orcs were on board, and the siege towers and catapults were rolled on after them. Burk was amazed how much weight the rafts could hold without sinking. They were of Sauron's craft, and, consequently, they were well made.

Slowly they began to cross the great river, and for several minutes their advance went unnoticed. Then, as they reached midway across, horns blared from the opposite bank. The sentinels of Gondor had spotted them.

Arrows whizzed toward them, and several orcs were hit, including a young soldier within ten paces of where Burk was standing. He fell off the raft, and Burk saw him flailing wildly in the water, which turned red around him. No one bothered to leap in after him. They had their own problems to deal with.

Pulling his eyes from the dying orc, Burk threw his shield above his head. The rain of arrows continued, striking another orc on their boat, who fell to the floor and struggled, but did not get back up.

With a cry, one of the Nazgûl swooped down and grabbed several of the archers. Burk was startled, but relived. He had not known before of the Ringwraith's presence.

The Ringwraith swooped down toward one of the neighbouring boats, and dropped the screaming Men down onto it. "Fling them back," Burk heard him hiss. He then flew back up to the archers, who quailed at his menace, and grabbed another. This Man he dropped on Burk's raft.

"Help me," Officer Duérkon commanded, and Burk came over to the Man, which was screaming and struggling. They hoisted it into the catapult, and two other soldiers pulled the catapult back. On a command from the officer, they let it go, and the Man, with a yell, was flung up toward the archers. It fell a few feet short, instead slamming into the stone wall of a building. Burk distinctly heard the crunch of its bones breaking against the stone.

"Damn!" the officer cursed. "Missed them!"

Meanwhile the archers of Mordor had begun the counterattack, and the Men had, for a while, stopped shooting. The orcs won the west bank of the Anduin.

"Leave the towers and catapults!" Officer Duérkon called.

"I'll anchor the raft," Holavor offered, and ran over to tie it to one of the numerous fallen columns. The others poured into the silent streets. No sign of the Enemy was yet seen.

Then they suddenly appeared, jumping out from alleys and behind pillars. Burk suddenly found a full grown Man in his face, wielding a long sword. He was taken by surprise, but his quick reflexes saved him, for he ducked, and his opponent's blow glanced harmlessly off his helm. He ran his sword through the Man's exposed stomach, then forgot about it, considering it as good as dead, and went on, more wary than before.

The fighting was out in the open now, though it was brief. The Men of Gondor were greatly outnumbered, and many were quickly dispatched. One of the last survivors was a muscular Man who had already taken down three orcs; they lay groaning at his feet.

Officer Duérkon was the orc currently fighting with him, but the officer was losing. Burk made his way over to help, though another got there first. The Man, unable to fight two on one, was quickly taken down. Officer Duérkon stamped his iron clad foot down on his defeated opponent's stomach. The Man groaned and struggled hopelessly, its one remaining arm catching the officer and almost causing him to trip. In retaliation, Officer Duérkon chopped it off with an elegant flick of his sword.

As blood spurted from the dying Man, which was trying to scream, though it was unable to get enough air to do so, the officer addressed the small crowd gathered around him.

"This is our revenge!" he shouted. Cheers rose from the assembled orcs.

"NOW is our revenge!" Officer Duérkon repeated. "The Men of Gondor invaded _our_ country and destroyed _our_ Ruler, crippling Him. But Sauron was never defeated. Today he re-emerges, victorious!"

"The battle here shall reflect the battles of the entire war. Swift, merciless, efficient, and with Mordor as the clear victor. We shall press onward to Minas Tirith, destroy the city, and kill Elendil's heir. Sauron will reclaim what is rightfully His, and establish dominion over the West of Middle Earth. All who aided Him will be rewarded. All His foes—" at this point he stamped again on the Man's body, but on a point slightly lower than the stomach. The Man yelled in pain, while a good half of the crowd broke into raucous laughter.

"All His foes," Officer Duérkon resumed, "shall be punished."

He broke off, for the Man had muttered something in response.

"What's that?" the officer asked dangerously, in the Common Tongue. A hush fell over the onlookers.

It groaned, convulsed, and then vomited up a pool of blood, struggling to get out its last words. Finally it managed to utter a single sentence.

"Fuck you."

All the orcs laughed heartily. Burk himself chuckled at the vulgarity of this supposedly "valiant" warrior.

"And may those be the last honourable words ever to exit your lips, _sir_," Officer Duérkon said, bowing to it in mockery. He grabbed a spear from one of the bystanders and stabbed it once through the Man's stomach.

"The age of Men is over," he cried, stabbing it again, and Burk instinctively cringed, seeing the dying creature's face contort in unmistakable pain. "This is the age of the orc! The orc is stronger, more concerned with the present that the past. He is sturdier, more practical, and more adaptable. He is less sentimental, but still has loyalty to his friends, family, and country. We are the supreme race, and all others are below us! We are the orcs, and we shall conquer!"

Tumultuous cheers rose from the assembled crowd, and Burk clapped along with them. He agreed wholly with what the officer had said, and chastised himself for his brief, almost negligible feeling of pity for the Man (which was by now dead). After all, it hadn't been an orc. It was inferior to the orcs. Men were all weak, in spirit as well as in body.

"They're retreating!" someone called, and Burk was amazed. Already? He was astonished at Gondor's cowardice. He had always known of Man's weaknesses, but apparently he hadn't known how pronounced they were.

They chased the last few fleeing Men down through the city, stopping at the point where the open fields of the Pellenor began.

Only a small group of perhaps five Men had escaped, and they were horsed, riding away too swift for the pursuit. Burk stopped running, and instead scampered up to one of the nearby tower's battlements, for a better view of the hectic retreat. He was not the only one up there, and still others followed, all intrigued by the rout.

Burk could clearly see five figures riding. He assumed that the Man in front was Captain Faramir. The other four were most likely the captain's guard.

As they rode onward, Burk heard, behind him, the shrill, bone-chilling cry that he knew so well, and it renewed his hope. He looked up, and saw the Nazgûl bearing down on the last survivors. The captain was madly blowing his trumpet, but to no avail. The Nazgûl drew nearer, frightening the horses, who jolted their riders. None save the captain managed to stay on.

Cheers rose from behind Burk, as Faramir checked his horse, then reversed direction, and began riding back toward his unhorsed comrades. It was typical of Men. Valour to them was selflessness, and, in this case, suicide.

"Idiot," Zaòrk (who Burk suddenly realised was standing just to his left) muttered. "Save your own skin first!"

But their laughter was cut short, as out of the remote gate of Minas Tirith rode a small speck of a rider, (from this distance barely perceptible as more than a white dot,) who seemed to be glowing.

"Mithrandir!" the orc on Burk's right cried in despair. "The cursed wizard!"

Burk watched as the Nazgûl quailed at his coming, and with a last cry turned and sped back away toward Osgiliath.

Faramir had made it back to his father.

But Mordor had taken Osgiliath. The war so far was going well.


	41. Chapter 41

**XLI**

**Sheglock**

Sheglock dispiritedly rode down the familiar streets of Garkhôn. He cast his eyes around, taking in the familiar landmarks. He glanced around the gray, softly undulating waves of rock, between the occasional jutting slab which stuck out of the ground like a thorn from one of the brambles that littered the dry gulch to his left. To his right, the miners were still working in the quarry, slowly digging into the cold, dead earth in search of iron or copper. Several of them were lounging on an upturned wedge of stone, on their midday break, and they waved amicably at Sheglock as he passed, but, most unusually, Sheglock was too sullen to reply.

The reason for his unease was complicated, but at its heart was his anxiety over what he would find in the town. Who would still be there? Who had not yet gone off to war? Ulûrk, especially, was on Sheglock's mind. He dearly wanted to say his farewells, and wish his friend luck. Sheglock earnestly hoped that his companion had not yet departed. What if he never returned from the war? Sheglock instantly stopped himself – there was no need to entertain that notion. Ulûrk would, of course, return safely.

The road continued in a straight path, as the land was flat and barren. Sheglock, for the most part, kept his eyes downcast, unwilling them to gaze upon the dreary blackness above. Eventually Sheglock came to a portion of the road that he knew well, and he reluctantly lifted his eyes. He was standing before the door of a decrepit looking shop – the very same shop that he had worked in for so long. A dirty "closed" sign was nailed to the door, and the windows were boarded. None of the usual snarls or growls came from within. Sheglock turned instantly and abruptly away, but his gaze was drawn back, and he unwillingly examined it further. The words "Gortog's Wargs" had been removed from above the doorway, crudely painted over, so that some semblance of them was still visible. But the inside was empty, hollow, everything had been moved to the downtown shop. There was naught left of the original but a shell – it was dead. It was gone.

Sheglock yelled in frustration, his voice echoing strangely across the plain. He felt tears come to his eyes – his fears confirmed, realising that time had taken its toll. His absence had not stalled change, and his town had moved on without him. His old life had been irredeemably left behind, and, though he could chase after it as fast as he liked, he could never catch up. Almost as though attempting to prove himself wrong, he jumped onto Merân's back and bolted from the site, head fixated forwards.

Slowly his rage faded to despair, and as he approached the town, he slowed down. The familiarity of the scene – the bustling vendors, hurrying peasants, and the few children playing with fake swords in front of one of the houses – only made it worse. Here was, in so many ways, the same town that he had left. And yet, to Sheglock, it was completely alien. He felt removed from it, as though he no longer belonged, nor fit in. Somehow, without having yet arrived, he could sense that Ulûrk was gone.

As he drew nearer to his friend's house, he slowly realised the truth behind his pessimism. The house looked abandoned, and the door did not easily budge, a mark that it hadn't been used in days. Sheglock entered the small house, looking around despondently, and hoping, in the back of his heart, that his friend was only out for training. But his eyes instantly fell on the small note left on the table, prominently displayed. It was clearly Ulûrk's writing.

_Off to war — be right back._

Overcome with emptiness, Sheglock sighed and knelt down before the table, closing his eyes in despair. It felt as though he was no longer in Garkhôn. This was some other world, some parallel universe that was lacking in all he cared about. He liked change, but not deprivation, and these changes had done naught but steal away all that mattered to him. They only ruined his old memories, tarnishing his mental image of Garkhôn. Before today it had been, in his mind, the image of home, security, a place to fall back on when the wild times in Dorezátz were done. Now it was something different – as foreign and unwelcoming as the jungles to the east. His sanctuary no longer existed, save in his memory. Staring around the desolate house, Sheglock realised that he should never have come.

In that moment he resolved to go to Barad-dûr. He could not explain what ld him to that sudden resolution. It was some deep yearning, some latent craving of the familiar. Though his memories of Sauron's city were not the greatest, at least there he could again find people he knew. He felt a sudden longing to see his brother again, and he realised he even missed Firri.

He wondered how they all were doing, and how Morrick had taken his departure. He hoped his brother hadn't been too distraught, or angry, over his last words. Sheglock resolved to amend that, for such, at least, was in his ability. When he arrived, he would make a full apology.

Having made up his mind, he moved quickly, exiting the house, leaping on to Merân's back (causing her to bark in disapproval), and galloping off. It was nightfall by the time he reached Garkhôn's outskirts, but he kept on riding. He rode on long into the black night, which was hardly darker than the black day. And Sheglock sped through the blackness as though chased by a thousand pursuers, pressing on until Merân could take no more, and simply threw him off and collapsed. Sheglock, realising she was exhausted, tried to soothe her, though it did no good. She wandered off, and he was forced to rest that night by the roadside.

Dawn arrived, and Sheglock, though he was up early enough to see it, did not. The great cloud, now extending almost to Dorezátz, blocked all but the first flicker of light. For a brief second the sun showed her face, far to the eastern horizon, but just as soon she was engulfed by Sauron's almighty blackness, and the usual reds, pinks, and oranges were utterly absent from the vast gray hemisphere of the sky. With a deep sigh Sheglock called to Merân, made up for the last night with a double serving of meat, and dispiritedly resumed his journey. Somehow, the ebullience that he had possessed the night before had ebbed away, and naught was left but a deep, apathetic languor.

As he rode, his indifference slowly was blown away by the joy of riding, and Sheglock felt his spirits rise. He sped up, soaring down the road, heedless of the harassed passers-by rushing this way and that, on all variety of errands for the Eye. At once his yearning returned, and it drove him onward, ever faster.

An hour or so down the road, Sheglock caught up with a news-orc, and slowed down briefly to hear his tale. From him, Sheglock learned of the fall of Isengard. Gondor now had the Ring. It was Sauron's strategy to strike first, ere they learned how to use It. Sheglock groaned – the news only made haste more urgent. He patted Merân on the side, firmly, and she sped up, leaving the news-orc behind in a cloud of gray dust.

Sheglock rode more quickly than ever, though allowing frequent rests for his beast of burden. Still, he made good time, and by noon he could see the city clearly. He sped up to a full gallop. By the early afternoon he arrived, and he rode straight to the gate, stopping abruptly before the guard.

"I'm here for my brother."

"To aid the Eye?" she asked curtly.

Sheglock shrugged. "Most likely."

Rolling her eyes, the guard let him through.

Determined not to allow one second to slip past him, Sheglock rode straight up to the Tower. He was not detained, and the Eye let him cross the bridge unheeded. Some uproar was going on inside, and Sauron was evidently preoccupied.

"The heir of Elendil revealed himself just minutes ago to Lord Sauron the Great," a messenger was telling the assembled crowd. Sheglock paused, despite his haste, shocked. He hadn't known that Elendil had had any heirs.

Neither, it turned out, had Sauron, as Sheglock soon learned when the official continued. She briefly described this man, speaking over the exited chorus of voices. Her voice rang out clearly over them, silencing them at last.

"Sauron will waste no time now. Next comes the test: He will march His troops to Gondor. With grace, may He triumph over this King, and against His own Ring. The war has begun."

With that the orc stopped speaking, leaving Sheglock immobile in shock, standing by the vast gates of Barad-dûr. The war was finally catching up with him – it had already taken Ulûrk, and now it was surrounding him even as he fled from it. He simply stood where fate had left him, deep in wordless sadness. Presently he heard his name, and instantly roused himself from his trance.

"Is that Sheglock?"

"By the One, it is!" cried the unmistakable voice of his brother. Sheglock turned to see Morrick pushing his way through the crowd, toward him. "You decided to come, eh, bro? Had the whim after all?"

"Yeah," Sheglock muttered, suddenly embarrassed. "Listen guys, sorry—"

"Forget it," Morrick said glibly. "We're just glad that you're back."

"It was wrong of me to attack you like that!" Sheglock cried.

Morrick shrugged. "But you _were_ right," he conceded. "I hadn't been concerned enough about life, about love, or I would have realised my feelings long before Firri had to point them out to me. Now she did, and by doing so closed a hole in my heart, one that I never even knew existed."

Sheglock rolled his eyes, completely bewildered by this speech that was so unlike his brother's. He opened his mouth to make a sarcastic comment, but Morrick's next words stopped him entirely.

"Firri and I are getting engaged!"

Sheglock was dumbstruck. He closed his mouth, opened and closed it again, and finally managed to express his appreciation. "Congratulations! That's wonderful!"

Firri, who had apparently been equally surprised by Morrick's uncharacteristically sincere speech even less, groaned. "Not if he becomes a poet! What was with that? 'A hole in my heart that I never knew I had.' Sounds like you took a leaf from Mark's book!"

Morrick laughed. "No! I don't know why I said that, but I feel it. Perhaps I'm just so happy to have you two here with me."

"But the war?" Sheglock asked in amazement. "Sauron? Our country?"

"What will happen will happen," Morrick said with the air of the infinitely wise philosopher. "I have done my part already, and Grond will be shipped off in a— no, right now! Here they come!"

A group of four trolls grunted as they passed out the gate, pushing a giant battering ram. Several orcs followed at a distance. One of them seemed to recognise Morrick.

"Hey! You're the new smith, right? Morak, was it?"

"Morrick – you're close enough. But tarry a moment, if you can – you've come at the perfect time. My brother has just returned, and I'd like you to meet him. I think you guys will like each other. Sheglock, this is Iarék. Iarék, Sheglock."

Sheglock shook Iarék's proffered hand.

"I need to talk with Firri," Morrick said deliberately, leaving the two of them.

"What do you do?" Sheglock asked once his brother had left, intrigued. He assumed it must have something to do with art.

"Let's get out of the path," Iarék suggested, and they travelled over to one of the columns, using the base as a bench. Iarék looked up, and confirmed Sheglock's suspicion with a brief critique. "Ionic style, but shabbily made. See the cracks in the marble. I could do better than that in my sleep."

"Are you an artist – a smith?"

"I do some blacksmithing," he replied, fishing a metal Eye from his pocket. "Made about twenty of these a few days ago, for use at Osgiliath. And yes, I'm an artist, or as much of an artist as an orc can be in this industrial age."

"You actually work _here_? You're not just stopping by like us? That's ironic… I didn't know that Sauron tolerated art."

"If it has a purpose," Iarék replied softly, pocketing the eye. "And by 'purpose', I mean one that is recognised by the mechanical Eye of our King. Like the sculptures outside Minas Morgul – I doubt you've ever seen them. The one on the right is mine. Took me a good year to finish, and I was working on it constantly. Still, I'd consider it my masterpiece, so a year's not so long, eh? But what about you – what do you contribute to this vast Empire?"

"My brother sometimes calls me an idealist, just because I believe some things…"

"Like in charity?" Iarék asked, getting excited. Sheglock nodded, an the other beamed brightly.

"You are not alone – I too believe that fortune, not only talent, determines one's place in life, and that it is only fair to give those less fortunate a fair chance… Do you believe also in eventual coexistence?"

"What's that?" Sheglock asked.

"Not all my idea, but the poet's said much on that matter, or as much as poets can say in this land…" Iarék's eyes glazed over, and his voice took on a dreamy quality, as he slowly recited.

_A time when all diff'rence ceases to be.  
__No Mordor, Gondor, Kings nor emperors.  
__When orcs and Men, alike, begin to see,  
__settle their grievances and stop all wars._

"I can't" Sheglock slowly responded, frantically adding more as he saw his acquaintance's expression. "Though I suppose I'm willing to consider… but it seems impossible, given Men and orcs as I know them. So, what are the eyes for?" he asked suddenly, to give himself more time to mull over the revolutionary concept.

"Brands," Iarék answered.

"For what?" Sheglock cried in shock, jarred by Iarék's nonchalant reply. "Wargs? Slaves? Men?"

"For the Enemy," he answered dispassionately. "While Gondor lasts, I oppose it. I oppose all who carry their mentality. We cannot have peace while it lasts."

"What mentality?"

"That they are the greatest. That they must vanquish the rest of the world. That they are superior…"

"That's the same as ours," Sheglock pointed out, unsure of the depth of Iarék's thought.

But, again, Iarék surprised him. "I never said that I support this nation," he said softly, from within the depths of the nation's very heart.

"Then you say Mordor cannot last." Sheglock muttered, almost afraid to speak such words in the Great City itself.

"I said so already, though I'll repeat it if you want. For the sake of morality, I would rather the Ring perish utterly, than that either side ever recover It. It gives It's bearer the will to dominate – to enslave and to conquer. But my Utopia needs none of that. There would be no rulers, only the common people, all working as one…"

Sheglock sighed, again seeing the dreamy look on Iarék's face. "And I thought that I was idealistic," he said to himself, astounded. Iarék merely smiled.


	42. Chapter 42

**XLII**

**Burk**

"Find all the bodies." Officer Duérkon's sharp voice immediately brought Burk to attention. The officer had just climbed to the battlement from which Burk and a large group of orcs had been watching.

Before Burk had even turned around, Officer Duérkon had begun to climb back down, probably to spread the command to others.

Zaòrk groaned. "What's he want with 'em, eh? Ain't we gettin' the spoils?"

"That's how it usually goes," Burk replied, feeling hungry, and thinking of the large amount of flesh that had been on the Man that he had killed. The thought of the succulent, savoury meat merely made him more ravenous.

Zaòrk left to find his officer. At the base of the tower, Officer Duérkon gathered his group. Burk shivered when he looked up into the cold eyes of his superior, remembering his brutal cruelty against his last opponent. He was immensely proud, but also relieved, to be on the same side as such a strong and merciless opponent. As he reflected on the battle, he waited for further commands, wondering what ghastly use the bodies could possibly be put to.

Officer Duérkon did not give orders, nor an explanation, however, but merely beckoned his group to follow, and they walked a while, coming at last to the fields west of Osgiliath. There one of the Nazgûl was perched atop a siege tower, alike to the one Burk had built. Around it was assembled the bulk of the army which had invaded western Osgiliath, some thousands of orcs. There were a strong four thousands of them, and more still were joining the circle. Burk's group had come late, and so he was farther from the centre, and was hardly able to see the black-robed figure.

"Well done, soldiers of Mordor," the Ringwraith cried, his voice loud enough for Burk to hear. It carried remarkably well, and could be heard even over the cheers that greeted them. "I am Kaq-Làrria of the Nazgûl, and I have seen your work. I praise you for it! It was swift, efficient, and deadly. We stand now over a city of carrion, having lost few of our number. Lord Sauron shall be well pleased with you.

"However, our task here has not ended, but rather, has just begun. What now do we do with the carrion? The Witch-King, ever the master of strategy, has found an excellent use for it. One that will not reduce its use as food, you will be pleased to hear, nor decrease its flavour. Yet it shall show the Enemy our might, and pervade their weak hearts with a crushing fear of our Lord Sauron the Great!

"Listen to the brilliant designs of our Master! We shall take their heads, and sever them from their bodies. Those we shall return to the Men, to whom they rightfully belong! We shall fling them over the White City's walls. We shall let the soldiers of Gondor know the true meaning of despair! Fellow servants of Sauron, on my command, gather up all the dead. The body shall be yours for supper, yet unto Sauron you shall gift the head! To Mordor!"

"To Mordor!" echoed the voice of four thousand soldiers. Then they rapidly dispersed, and set about their work, each anxious to grab the good meat before it was claimed by another.

Under the gray, smoky skies the soldiers laboured like ants, quickly moving the numerous corpses. Stations were erected around the city as drop-off points, and the soldiers dragged the bodies to these. Within half an hour, there were no more cadavers left in the streets, save those too scrawny and insubstantial to have any value. Burk returned to the nearby station to await further instruction (and hoping for the opportunity to eat some of his meat, as it was past his usual lunchtime.

"When do we eat?" he asked Officer Duérkon, who was running his station.

"Now," he said, much to Burk's pleasure. "We need to wait for the brands to heat up."

"Brands?" Burk asked, puzzled.

Officer Duérkon pulled a metal Eye from his pocket. "We're going to let the Men of Gondor know exactly who they're dealing with. If we mutilate the faces, they will get angry. And the Lord of the Rings knows that anger oft causes the foe to err."

"Or it may renew his fighting spirit," Burk commented, but then quickly went off to eat, not wanting to appear argumentative.

The day wore on, and soon a group of ten live Men was led into the building. They were some of the many prisoners of war – those who had thrown down their weapons in despair, not even trying to flee. The orc bringing them spoke quickly to Officer Duérkon in low tones, who nodded. The other orc, apparently satisfied, quickly went off, leaving the terrified Men in the room.

"What're they doing?" Burk asked one of the other soldiers, who shrugged. Burk returned the gesture, resuming his lunch, unwilling to waste time wondering about them, for he did not know how much longer the break would last.

Shortly Officer Duérkon cleared his throat. "Attention, soldiers. In this room we have about fifty Men who have died in battle. Sever the heads from the bodies, and cauterise the neck. Using the Eyes on that rack above the fire, brand the forehead. When you are done, throw the head into one of the baskets over in the corner of the room. Leave the helms and hair as you find it. Then search the clothes for anything valuable, and burn what cannot be used. Stash the armour over here," he gestured behind him, "and either take the meat for yourself, or burn it if you cannot carry it." Burk cringed at the idea of putting good food to such waste.

"Now," he continued, switching abruptly to the Common Tongue, "we do not have enough workers. Prisoners, you shall aid us, or suffer. You too shall take one of your fallen comrades, strip all armour and valuables from him, then behead him, and brand the heads."

At this there was an angry muttering amongst the prisoners. "How can you!" one of them dared to scream.

Officer Duérkon marched over to it, jaw set furiously. Without speaking, he grabbed one of the red-hot brands, and thrust it into the Man's face. It screamed and struggled, but the officer held the burning metal to its skin. Blisters erupted across its face, and the skin turned black. At last the Man's yell died down into a moan, and Officer Duérkon removed the brand, placing it back into the fire.

"Any questions?" he asked in the Common Tongue. The petrified prisoners did not respond. The Man with the burnt face clutched it in its hands, and began yelling again.

"Get to work, all of you!" the officer cried over the Man's moaning. "Orcs too. And you," he muttered to the Man he had just punished with the brand, "shut the hell up." He smacked it across its burnt face, causing it to scream louder.

Burk turned away from the prisoners, feeling angry, not out of pity, he assured himself, but because the screaming was getting on his nerves. He wondered why the officer had not killed the Man yet.

Putting it out of his mind, he went over to the pile of bodies, and selected one of the plumpest and juiciest looking, remembering that he got to keep the meat afterward. He drew his knife, swiftly severed the head, using the Man's clothes as a cloth to staunch the bleeding. He carried the head over to the fire in the middle of the room, and lay it on an iron plate erected for the purpose of cauterisation. Once enough time had passed he retrieved it, grabbing it by its thick hair, and headed around the fire pit to where the brands were heating. He grabbed one, dropped it, (as the handle was very hot), swore, dropped the head, and swore again. He bent over to retrieve the head, gingerly picking it up with his burnt hand. With the other he slipped on a leather glove from the pile across the room, and returned to brand the head. When he returned, he found himself standing next to a Man – one of the prisoners. It was also holding a severed head, looking nauseous.

"Like this," Burk said harshly in the Common Tongue, demonstrating by branding the head he was carrying. As the dead flesh sizzled and blackened, the Man glared at Burk as though he was a monster.

"Do you realise just how sick you are?" it cried in inexplicable fury.

Burk shook his head. "Not sick. 'Practical' would be a better word. We need more workers – we ask ya for help. Be thankful it's no worse."

"You want me to abandon all my honour! I cannot mutilate my fellow soldier!" it cried, as though the thought pained it. Burk couldn't understand this. The other Man was already dead.

"I wouldn't have a problem if I was in your spot. I'd just be damn thankful that I was still alive. Orcs aren't sentimental, and see a dead body as only that, a corpse, not associated with the memory of the living being. It does not need respect. The life force is gone."

"Such is not the custom in Gondor," the Man replied.

"You are not in Gondor," Burk reminded it.

"I am in Osgiliath, the capital of Gondor," the Man pointed out.

Burk sighed, vaguely frustrated and beginning to regret bothering to explain himself to the Enemy. "Osgiliath belongs to Mordor now. Soon Minas Tirith shall as well. You must adopt our customs, as your own shall perish as utterly as this city has. And if you continue to oppose Sauron's ideals, you will die too."

"That is what you think," the Man replied.

Burk ignored it, searching the dead Man's clothes. There was only a small scrap of paper, most likely a note from his wife. Burk could not read it, and did not care to. He threw it, along with the clothes, into the fire, and then went back to the pile, hoping for the chance to fix another corpse, and thereby claim more meat.

After finishing with the second, he went back for a third. Burk had never been one to resist food, even to an excess. However, there were no bodies left. Burk sighed, tossing the second head across the room, and successfully landing it in the basket. He cooked up some meat and ate while waiting for everyone to finish.

"What do ya reckon Duérkon's gonna do with those pris'ners?" an orc asked, coming up and sitting himself down beside Burk.

"No idea," Burk replied. "Slaves, I suppose."

"I reckon they'll kill 'em."

Burk sighed, frustrated by the memory of his infuriating conversation with the Man. "Honestly, I don't care."

He was not sure why he was angry with the Man. It hadn't done anything to him. In fact, it had been quite civil. Perhaps, Burk mused, that was what had disarmed him and disturbed him the most. He had always pictured Men either as fools or monsters, yet that one had maintained a shred of dignity that Burk, though reluctantly, was forced to recognise. In a way, the Man had impressed itself in Burk's mind, in a way in which he was unprepared and unwilling to accept. He strove to drive the new notions from his mind, and to recover his old mindset.

Soon afterward, they discovered the fate of the prisoners. Officer Duérkon went to the middle of the room, and addressed the crowd in the Common Tongue, for the Men's benefit. "I have decided the sentence of these prisoners. They are to be executed!"

At this the Men hung their heads. Burk rolled his eyes, wondering what they had expected. Slavery – the only realistically possible alternative – would not have been much better.

The nine of them (the burned, screaming one had been killed earlier) were led over and chained to the wall. "Now," Officer Duérkon went on, "the manner of death is especially important. If the Enemy sees that they died in pain, he will get angrier. This will aid our cause. Here is how you shall kill them."

He went down the line, stuffing a rag in each of their mouths. Then he stood back. "First, strip them," he ordered with a smile. As the orcs hurried forward to obey, Burk wondered where this was going. But it was not his place to question orders, so he merely obeyed, tearing off the armour of one of the nine, and dumping it into the pile with the rest. Soon the Men were stripped naked, shaking with rage and humiliation, gagged and chained to the wall, unable to speak or move their arms or legs.

"Har!" the officer laughed, and Burk could tell that the whole exercise had been done merely for sport. "Pity they aren't women, or we'd have some fun!" He surveyed the line of nude bodies. "Any homosexuals here?" he asked.

"That's disgusting!" one orc cried in repugnance. "Who'd wanna do tha' with a _Man_?"

Officer Duérkon laughed again. "Wouldn't their mothers be proud! Oh, if just their mommies were here to see them. Now _They'd_ be fun to rape!"

If the officer had been trying to enrage the Men, that last comment did the trick. One of the Men, shuddering visibly with rage, let loose an obscenity. Duérkon turned on him. "You think so?" he asked venomously, the cruel smile appearing in the corner of his mouth. "Why don't we use you as an example?"

He turned to the orcs, then began speaking with the air of a swordsmaster demonstrating proper technique. "This is what you do. Use your knife to carve up heir body, but make sure that they don't die, or pass out. The longer their suffering is prolonged, the more pain that will be in their faces when we hurl their heads into Minas Tirith. The Men of Gondor will see that pain in their lifeless eyes, and despair shall conquer them, when they see that we have no mercy. Do we have mercy for Men?"

"No!" cried the majority of the orcs – those who knew the Common Tongue. Burk yelled excessively loudly along with them, eager to assert his toughness.

Officer Duérkon continued. "Good – then show none. Draw it out till you get squeamish," he said challengingly, as though no strong orc should ever grow squeamish. "And make sure to brand them sometime before they pass out. Then we'll leave them to die overnight."

The Man had turned utterly pale. It seemed as though it was unable to brace itself for the agony that was coming its way. Burk smiled at its weakness. All Men would weaken, he surmised, if set in circumstances vile enough.

Officer Duérkon laughed again, evidently enjoying himself. "Where do you want first?" he asked, laughing.

The Man, frozen with either horror or fury, Burk couldn't tell, didn't answer. Officer Duérkon smiled. "Guess we'll start here," he said, lowering his knife to the Man's nether region. The Man's eyes were the only part of his body able to express his haste, and it glared with such intense hatred that Burk lowered his gaze from the eyes to the genitals, unable to meet the hateful stare. And, anyway, the fun wasn't happening near the Man's head.

"How do you feel?" the officer asked mockingly. "Nervous? Going to cry for your mommy?"

Officer Duérkon laughed again. "Gondor is the Evil," he said, "and it shall perish. But you will not live to see that day. You have ten seconds before I perform my little operation… five now…"

He drove the knife straight toward the Man's genitals, and Burk, in spite of himself, looked away. Apparently, however, Officer Duérkon had deflected the knife at the last moment, and a great chorus of laughter arose from those who had had the guts to watch. Burk instantly glanced back, ashamed of himself, in time to see the Man thrashing and cringing like a child. The orcs all around laughed over the weakness of the Gondorian.

Burk admonished himself for turning away. He had always thought he had a strong stomach, both figuratively and literally. Not only could he take in large amounts of food, but moreover, he hardly ever let it back out. He forced himself to watch as the officer turned back to the Man.

Determined to prove his mercilessness and ruthlessness, Burk decided to try his best to worsen the Man's agony. His mind strove to imagine what could possibly be worse, and promptly came to a solution. "Blindfold it," he suggested loudly and with machoism.

Officer Duérkon smiled his characteristic smile. "I like your thinking, soldier," he said, tearing a sleeve from one of the discarded garments. He wrapped it around the Man's head, and them stood back, holding the knife ready.

They waited, and, after a minute, the Man convulsively shuddered, rattling its chains. The orcs laughed heartily, and Burk smiled, reassuring himself of his own toughness whilst watching the creature's silent mental anguish. After another half-minute the Man finally managed to make itself still, but the officer yelled, and it instantly reacted as though actually stricken with a knife.

But the officer was growing bored, and he didn't have all day for sport. He raised the knife again, this time stabbing it deep into the Man's genitals. It thrashed, and a muffled scream could be heard, as blood and other fluids dripped from between the Man's legs. Manning up, Burk forced himself to watch, gritting his teeth through the gore.

"How do you feel now?" Officer Duérkon asked over the constant thrashing. Without waiting for a reply, he drove the knife into the bare stomach of the helpless Man. The volume of the thrashing increased, and pale yellow guts flung out and were strewn across the floor.

Finally satisfied, Officer Duérkon went back and grabbed the brand. This he pushed into the writhing Man's forehead, which was held still by the chains. Its face was screwed up in pain, and it was choking on the gag, trying to scream at the top of its lungs. The officer held the brand to its head until the metal had cooled to black, then nonchalantly turned toward the orcs. It was obvious that he had been exhilarated by the operation.

"Everyone whom had the guts, take a Man," the officer commanded sharply, returning the brand to the fire, and heading to a second Man. Several orcs, Burk included, stepped forward. Burk unsheathed his knife and faced the Man in front of him. He looked deep into its eyes, and the Man stared back, pleading, begging for a fast death. But it saw no mercy.

There was none.


	43. Chapter 43

**XLIII**

**Ulûrk**

They marched quickly to Osgiliath, the Witch-King leading the army to the cross-roads, before being called away. Ulûrk, in the front lines, had witnessed his departure. He felt the chilling presence of a second Nazgûl over him, and saw Zhatren cowering.

"Hail, Anæstîr!" the Witch-King cried.

"Hail, Master. I am, here to take your place. They need you at the front line. Osgiliath has already been overrun, and the Captain Faramir is bolting."

The lord of the Ringwraiths had then shot off into the sky like an arrow from a bow, and Anæstîr had taken the lead. He was slightly more jovial than the Witch-King, and faintly less intimidating. He told the orcs in the front about the war, and Ulûrk learned of the victory in Osgiliath. The battle, it turned out, had lasted less than an hour.

"It is only ten minutes since they called the retreat, and only five fled the city – the captain and his guard. Already Sauron is winning the war. Yet not even now does He possess the strength in arms that shall soon come to be needed. That strength lies in you, soldiers of Mordor, and it is through your loyalty that He shall put the city of Minas Tirith under siege. That is your purpose – you are to assail the walls of that cursed but mighty city."

They marched on, coming to rest that night in the city of Osgiliath itself, east of the Anduin. The next day they were awoken early, and ferried across. After half an hour, they began to march toward Minas Tirith.

Lord Anæstîr took to the skies, and it was an orc-captain who led the army toward the White City. Men flew in a mad retreat ahead of them, and the soldiers of Mordor swept toward the city like the oncoming waters of a great flood. The tension in the front lines was tangible.

"Ohmigosh!" Zhatren said, staring ahead at the prodigious, imposing city. Ulûrk had to admit that she was the grandest, strongest structure he had ever laid eyes on, save perhaps her sister, Minas Morgul. At first his heart was burdened by despair, for the White City seemed to be impenetrable. But then Ulûrk cast a glance over is shoulder, and saw that the fields were black with Sauron's soldiers, and hope rekindled in his heart, growing to a proud, blazing inferno. The forces of Mordor were too vast, too innumerable, that they could not be defeated! The city of Men was as good as gone.

They paused some miles from the city, and began to set fires to the countryside, to shut the city from its supplies. This was a siege, and Sauron clearly wanted Gondor to run low on food. Ulûrk supposed it was another way of mentally attacking and demoralising the already weak country, though if prolonged, it would certainly affect their physical prowess as well.

Night fell, and they set to work digging trenches, in which they set their catapults. Ulûrk and Zhatren, and their group, were in charge of one that was near the front, just out of bowshot of the walls. However, the besieged city did not sleep, and though powerless to hamper Sauron's labour, it did shoot at anyone who dared to venture too close. One orc carrying some wood just in front of Ulûrk's trench was shot in the arm, and had to be rushed to the medical tent in the back lines.

The orcs poured coal and oil into the trenches, under orders from their superiors, and soon had a roaring fire. Ulûrk took charge of this job, as he had experience from his time as a metal smith. All the while, Zhatren was literally jumping in excitement. But even with all the hustle of orcs labouring, and the unspoken exuberance of the young kid, there was no speech, nor any substantial noise, and it felt eerily quiet.

It was not long ere Sauron's work was completed, and once He was ready, He lost no time.

The catapults were secured in the trenches, and the shot was placed in them. Ulûrk's crew (which consisted solely of Ulûrk and Zhatren) was given five coal-black missiles, which appeared to be made of the combustible rock itself. They were quickly instructed on their use. "Hold them over the fire until they catch aflame, then launch them. Aim over the walls – we'll burn it down from the inside outward."

"Yessir," Ulûrk replied, and he set the first in the metal basket of the catapult.

"Fire when the Nazgûl commands," the officer who had supplied Ulûrk the missiles said, then went on to the next catapult.

The shot quickly and easily caught on fire, and Ulûrk waited for the signal, which came as a high, wailing screech.

"Oh boy here we go can I do it please?"

"Go ahead," Ulûrk said, smiling slightly. Zhatren jumped up and released the catapult. Their missile joined the hundreds of others, which flew across the blackened sky and fell like meteors into the first circle of the city. Zhatren stared up at the night sky in awe, apparently mesmerised by the numerous streaks of glowing fire.

Dawn came, as close as any dawn could penetrate the great cloud of ash. The first layer of the city was entirely in flames. The Nazgûl came and went, passing over the city occasionally, just above the reach of the Men's bows, and crying shrill words, mocking and belittling the soldiers below. The city was losing its hope – Ulûrk could tell. It seemed the fight would be over before it even could begin.

As an officer came to them bearing the shot for the second volley, Zhatren turned to Ulûrk. "This isn't what I thought it would be," he said slowly, even pausing uncharacteristically at the end of the sentence. "Is it what you expected?"

"No," Ulûrk replied heavily, looking around.

"I thought we'd fight orc-to-Man and all that but… it's not that you know… it's not what I hoped for at all."

Ulûrk loaded the shot into the catapult, without even looking at it. He too had a sense of honour, and would have preferred to fight hand-to-hand. It seemed, however, that Sauron was unwilling to lose even one soldier unless the need arose. And while He could attack the Men through their minds, He would continue to do so. "It's a mental war, I guess," Ulûrk muttered, as much to himself as to Zhatren.

The kid did not appear to be listening. "Are those — _heads_?!"

Ulûrk stared in shock, and started upon realising what he was carrying. He dropped the heads, and one rolled into the flaming trench.

"Careful with those," a nearby officer warned. "They're gonna really dismay our foes." With large tongs he recovered the head that had fallen into the flames. The hair was burnt and smoking, and it looked slightly more ghastly than it had before. "Even better," he remarked with a smile, setting it in the basket of the catapult. A loud screech came from the centre of their rank, and the officer gave Ulûrk the thumbs-up. "Fire away!"

They sent the heads flying, and they soared up and scattered over the first several layers of the seven-tiered city. Soon mournful wails were heard coming from within the city walls. Men came furiously to the edge of the wall and shook their fists, to no avail. Ulûrk amused himself by shooting at them, and even, to his great pleasure and surprise, succeeded in hitting one.

Zhatren came up behind him, with a small bow that Ulûrk had not even known he owned. Equally eager to participate in the war in a tangible manner, the kid joined his companion in firing at the Men. His arm was younger and weaker, however, and his first arrow missed the wall by a good ten yards. Undiscouraged, he eagerly ran thirty paces closer, and took aim again.

"No!" Ulûrk cried, to no avail. An arrow, skilfully shot from above, shot straight down like a bolt from heaven, sticking itself firmly into the kid's exposed neck. With a cry Ulûrk ran forward, just as two more arrows buried themselves into the exposed sections of Zhatren's quivering body. Dodging the missiles, Ulûrk ran to where the youngster lay, and grabbed him as best he could. Zhatren was shaking, choking and bleeding.

"Oww it hurts it hurts…" he cried shrilly when Ulûrk lifted him, his words eventually fading to an unintelligible gurgle.

"Save your breath, son," Ulûrk muttered, hunched over to protect him. Adrenaline surged through the older orc's blood as he ran back. He was struck twice by arrows, but they glanced harmlessly off his mail. Zhatren groaned and muttered something incoherent.

Ulûrk knew that there was not much time to save the kid's life. He needed medical attention promptly. Fortunately Sauron, predicting emergencies of Zhatren's nature, had erected medical tents all around, and no orc was ever more than a minute from the nearest. Ulûrk rushed Zhatren to the nearest one of these, pushing his way through a queue of orcs with injuries less severe, many of whom were merely burnt by various mishaps with the catapults. Dragging Zhatren, Ulûrk shoved his way to the flap of the tent, begging for aid.

Softly, methodically, scientifically, unemotionally, they turned him down.

"Yer friend's got three arrers through the neck. 'E ain't got a chance."

"Please!" Ulûrk cried, his voice filled with feeling. "He's fifteen! Ya gotta try. He's fifteen!"

"Fifteen and a half," choked Zhatren.

Sadness and sentimentality suddenly washed over Ulûrk like a great wave from the mighty Sea. He was overcome by it, knocked to his knees, and the salt of the waves burned his eyes and made them tear. Hanging his head, and letting the drops of saltwater drip down his cheeks, Ulûrk finally realised to what extent Zhatren was utterly clueless. He had been, all along, wholly naïve. He had not known the meaning of the word "war", nor that of "death". Even now he did not realised that his very life hinged on the stubborn orc before them. He didn't realise that he was dying! Ulûrk wept, as he had never wept before, crying out against the injustice of the world. Naïveté, Ulûrk thought with passion, was not a crime punishable by death! Zhatren did not deserve to die – he deserved to be treated, as long it was in Sauron's ability to do so.

"Take him!" Ulûrk cried again, raising his head to the cruel doctors, who were ignoring him entirely. But he was pushed aside to accommodate for an orc whose leg had been smashed by some sort of missile. "They're chuckin' monstr's stones back at us," the orc delivering the wounded soldier reported. "Parts o' the city itself." The wounded orc groaned, gripping his leg.

"We need ta amputate that – no anaesthetic left. We'll make it quick. stop crying like a baby and Get the fuck out of our way!"

He was screaming at Ulûrk, who was still clutching Zhatren, trying to push his way into the hospital tent.

"Fifteen and a half!" Ulûrk cried at the top of his voice. He felt delirious, and he was blinded by the tears of his own wrath.

"It hurts," Zhatren repeated softly, feebly trying to tug the arrows out of his skin. Already he had made a dark pool of blood on the grass.

"Yer fine," Ulûrk lied to him, choking on the false words.

"I want to see my parents they can help me I want to go home… when will I get back home… home…"

He kept repeating that one last word, eyes closed, lying limply in Ulûrk's delicate embrace. "Home, home, home." Ulûrk wept outright, making no effort to stem the rain of sparkling tears that glimmered in the light of the burning plain all about, glinting as they fell down to the bloody grass below. Fifteen and a half. It was too young to die.

Had all their time together been in vain? Had all of Zhatren's growth, all the worldly knowledge he had accrued through his training in boot camp, saved him? Had it helped him? Ulûrk vividly remembered the kid's trial in the tunnel of Cirith Ungol. There Zhatren had conquered his fear. There Ulûrk, seeing the kid so vulnerable yet so strong, had felt, for the first time, true respect for him. He had, in that moment, proven himself an adult, by enduring even through his fear. Sure, he struggled, and he had cried. But he had made it through. That was all that mattered.

Yet now, in the end, it had come to naught. All the kid's struggles, all his triumphs, all were wasted, stolen away by the cold arrow of a faceless, merciless man. All the kid's life – all his potential, where would it go? Here, on the fields of the Pellenor, unnoticed in the vast battlefield all around, would it end?

Ulûrk had never been a poet or songwriter, and had always scoffed at such things. But now he felt that something was called for. His feelings were too much for him, they overflowed and overwhelmed him. He wished Sheglock was with him – Sheglock could have composed a song to remember the boy. He, Ulûrk, could only describe him in words. Enthusiastic, but kind. Loving. Valiant. A great, unforgettable pal. And brave. Definitely brave.

Ulûrk gently carried Zhatren away from the bustling tent, out onto the endless field. All around there was silence – a brief hiatus before the real fighting began. For a long time Ulûrk simply lay there, in silence, Zhatren's bleeding head in his arms, holding on to the kid as a father holding his son. And incessantly his thick, pearly tears streamed from his eyes, carving glimmering trails down his cheekbones.

"Where am I going?" Zhatren gasped at length, with sudden clarity of mind. He tried to lift his head, but Ulûrk held it down for him. He could tell that the kid was afraid.

Ulûrk let out a long, deep sigh. He did not know the mysteries of death. But there, alone on the battlefield, enveloped by the warm fire, the smoky darkness above, and the cool grass below, he hazarded a guess.

"Home," Ulûrk replied, and a wide smile spread across Zhatren's face, as he closed his eyes. He never opened them again.


	44. Chapter 44

**XLIV**

**Largg**

They rode quickly through South Gondor. The land was wide and empty, in parts like a desert, though as they travelled westward, some sparse vegetation appeared. For a while the road ran straight, but eventually it curved slightly toward the south, taking them ever closer to the Sea.

Though it was not yet within his vision, Largg could feel the great ocean's presence. It was something mighty, invincible, a force greater than that of mortals. Hearing the incessant thunder, Largg was awed, and rendered speechless. He rode on in silence, the only sounds being his warg's footfalls, and the ambient roar of the turbulent waters to his left.

"Almost there," Kareen said, falling back to a position just to Largg's right. Dawdlor had been prancing along at his own pace, and had fallen several hundred yards behind. "Why don't you want to ride with us?"

"I dunno," Largg muttered. Kareen glared, so he corrected himself. "I don't know. My warg just don't feel like leadin' the way."

"Some of us were born to lead," Kareen remarked with a smirk. "And some of us… weren't."

"What do you think of the ocean?" Largg asked. Kareen growled.

"Pointless question, which I shall not dignify with an answer."

"Largg! Karenaskóra!" A harsh call came from the front of the squadron. "Get your rears up here! The pirates are just ahead, and we ought to meet them in the town just ahead!"

The warg-riders sped up, abandoning the road and shortcutting across the fields. Several farmers were out working the fields, and ran when they saw the orcs approaching. "Shoot them!" someone cried, "Before they raise the alarm!"

Kareen bolted forward, and Largg followed, as fast as Dawdlor would allow. By the time Largg had caught up, both Men had been taken down. The soldiers had lit flaming brands, and were setting the barns on fire.

"Come on," Officer Kerzaque cried. "We'll have time for pillaging and looting later. Let's reach the rendezvous first."

Largg had no idea where Rondy Voo was, but he followed anyway. He didn't ask Kareen, knowing he would merely be scoffed at.

They left the now raging fire that had engulfed the barns, ignoring the frantic neighing of the dying horses. Largg felt some pity for the animals, but he remembered that they had served the losing side. They, like all the other animals of Gondor, would have to pay the price.

Soon they began to see small huts, scattered around the countryside. These were not fortified, and the orcs readily destroyed them. They met with little resistance. The town was fairly defenceless.

But as they were marching through, a commotion started in the centre of the village, and they saw smoke rising ahead. The small band of mounted orcs made for the fires.

"That'd be the corsairs," Officer Kerzaque remarked. They rode past many fierce looking Men, all equipped with rusty weapons. The rowdy group looked as though they had been drinking a lot recently.

Largg eyed them suspiciously, confused and bewildered. He wanted to ask Kareen why they weren't fighting these Men, but dared not. He wondered whether they were good Men, like Zierdasch.

Officer Kerzaque was unfazed, and he marched right up to the centre of the town, addressing the Men. "Where's the captain?" he shouted above the general din.

"Aye, he's still on board," one of the nearby Men replied, though his speech was different and hard to understand. He then switched to his own dialect and muttered something to one of his companions, who laughed.

"Hey, stay with us a while an' help us, will ya matey. When there ain't aught left o' this town but ashes, ya can see the cap'n."

Hearing this, many of the other orcs ran to join in the destruction of the town. Men or orcs, they didn't care, as long as decent looting was offered. Men were screaming, running madly, pursued by their merciless hunters, who were, bewilderingly, also Men.

But that was not the most unsettling aspect of the battle. Largg sighed as he observed the chaos encompassing him. He did not join in the slaughter, but rested instead against a wooden post, frowning. This was not war as he knew it. This was plundering. In war there was valour, and soldiers fought other soldiers, not harmless civilians.

Observing more carefully, Largg soon realised, they rarely killed the civilians. Many were rounded up as slaves, and soon a large group of men and women were tied together in the main plaza. The noise had subsided, but for the crackling of the dying fires. The town was black and ashen, and smoke hovered in the air.

"You didn't fight," Kareen pointed out, finding Largg. "Why?"

"I fight noble battles," Largg simply replied. For once, Kareen seemed impressed, and held back his response.

The orcs and Men all gathered together in the main square after the quick battle, both Officer Kerzaque's and the pirates alike. They began to march down toward a river which ran through the village. It was a large and powerful body of water, and in the midst of it three boats were anchored. Many other smaller boasts were roped to various wooden posts along the stream. Largg noticed that this area of the city was still intact. It seemed the corsairs were not dumb enough to risk burning down their own boats.

The soldiers loaded into these small boats, bringing the slaves, and various other treasures, such as jewellery, that they had found. Officer Kerzaque's orcs were brought to the largest of the three.

The boat was black, made of some dark wood unknown to Largg. On the side, in gold lettering, characters in a foreign script that Largg didn't recognise. Below, in smaller lettering, it was reproduced in the Tongue of Mordor: "Bane of Lebennin". Largg assumed this was the boat's name.

The front part (bow or stern, Largg didn't know which) ended in a figurehead that was hideously shaped as a shrunken head. As they approached closer, he realised that it _was_ a head. He looked away, nauseous. It had been heavily mutilated, and parts of the flesh had already begun to rot, leaving patches of black bone.

They climbed aboard, and Largg saw the vast strength of the Bane of Lebennin. There were three masts (which probably had technical terms that Largg wasn't aware of – sailors spoke a different language). Along the sides of the boat were rows of cannons. Below the top deck were countless slaves, chained to the oars. Several Men wandered about with whips, though they did not use them now, as the ship was not moving.

They were led down the captive's corridor, to the end, where a door led in to the captain's quarters. Their guide pushed it open, and Officer Kerzaque entered, the rest of his group following behind.

"Yer the new sailors, aye?" The captain, a filthy Man with salt-white hair, looked them up and down, frowning.

"They're warriors," Officer Kerzaque corrected. "To help out when we arrive at the villages."

The captain looked displeased. "We've had two groups of you Mordor 'warriors' already come. We don't need reinforcements. Nah, we need orcs who got what it takes, aye, ta sail the rough seas. We're comin' out ta the open ocean soon."

"Will you take Sauron's aid?" Officer Kerzaque asked, ignoring him. There was a silence.

"Aye," the captain said at length. "It ain't what I hoped for, but it's better than naught. It's all He's givin' me. Ya can stay on this 'ere ship; ain't she a beauty? The others from Mordor are already takin' up all the room on the Darktooth, and me mateys're a tad uncomftable with all o' ya orcs 'round."

"Thank you, sir," Officer Kerzaque said, leading his orcs back outside. As they left, the captain cried out, "Yer sleepin' on the floor, aye! We ain't got no room fer ya!"

They went up to the top deck, and Largg leaned against one of the cannons, watching the sailors at their work. They pulled up the anchor, and at once the river began carrying them downstream. The other two boats followed at a distance.

The banks of the river rolled by, and they passed a few small towns, not even stopping to raid them. Several hours later, they stopped at a major city, but found it deserted. The Men had been forewarned of their coming, and ran away. They plundered and burnt it down, but Largg stayed in the boat. So did Kareen, who wandered over to where Largg was standing.

"Do you know where we are?"

"Lebennin?" Largg guessed, remembering the name of the boat. Kareen sighed growlingly, though Largg fancied he was mildly impressed with even that much.

"Specifically, I mean. We're travelling down the Serni River, right after it meets with the Gilrain, at the point where it is flowing its fastest. Here they don't even need to use the oars."

"How do you know all this?" Largg asked, impressed.

"I seek knowledge, and retain it. I study, and remember. The geography of Gondor, and of Mordor, I know by heart. Can you name the five provinces of Mordor?"

"Gorgoroth and Dorezátz…" he trailed off shame-facedly. "I haven't been to the others."

"Neither have I been to the rich farmlands of Nurn in the south, nor have I looked upon the strange faces of the southeast orcs of Talûrnna. That does not prevent me from knowing of them."

"I only had a year of school," Largg said in his defence.

Kareen laughed. "I had none."

They set off again, and as twilight fell over Gondor, the river widened. Largg heard, ever more distinctly, the roar of the ocean ahead of him, though he could still not yet see it. By the time they were in the open sea, it was night, and the only hint of the water's presence was the sparkling ripples reflecting the silver moonlight.

Morning dawned, and they were still moving. Largg groaned as he rose, as dried salt covered his face. Spray from the ocean had continually splashed over him through the night. He was feeling irritable.

The sun rose over the cape to their right, that Kareen claimed was called Befalas. Ahead Largg saw an island (Tofolas, according to Kareen.) But all around these was a vast amount of water.

The Sea sparkled blue, a clear, pure blue that Largg had never before seen. Staring over the edge of the ship, he saw the occasional fish dart by. To the north, several fishing boats were casting large nets in attempt to catch some. Largg sighed, taking a breath of the air, which carried a distinctive taste that he hadn't experienced before.

The blast of a cannon pulled Largg out of his thoughts. He looked around, but no one on the ship had fired one. Were they being attacked?

To his relief, Largg soon realised that was not the case. About fifty other black boats, made with the same craftsmanship as the Bane of Lebennin, were sailing toward them.

"Aye, you're late!" a fearsome looking Man called out from one of them. The captain of the small fleet of three ships climbed up to the top deck, just in front of Largg.

"We were pickin' up reinforcements! I doubt ya dogs got any real Mordor warriors on board!"

Largg was annoyed. Hadn't the captain just complained about getting warriors, instead of seaorcs?

"Aye, we got better! Picked up a load o' Haradrim from South Gondor, who did't wanna be waylaid in Ithilien like the rest."

"Those be Men, but I got orcs!" the captain cried.

"So, ain't even ya gotta admit that yer own race is best. Orcs ain't gonna hurt though; aye, anyone _can_ fight. Even the slaves if we make 'em. But c'mon, le's start up the Anduin, 'fore the war's done."

The ships made for the Anduin Delta, which was almost as large as the Sea itself. The land was boggy in places, but the channels were wide, and the ships did not get caught by the weeds.

They stopped at the first major town, which was quickly destroyed, and Largg got to do very little fighting. This drill they repeated for the next two towns, though by the third rumour of their coming preceded them, and they met with a better defence.

This battle Largg enjoyed, as the opposition was made of real soldiers, who they crushed. The pirates were fierce warriors, and the orcs of Mordor were good with the bow, as well as the sword. Largg felled three Men that battle, and took the most appetising with him when he returned to the Bane of Lebennin.

When they approached the fourth major town, they found it deserted. Largg wondered at this – had they destroyed _all_ of Gondor's soldiers? Was there no one left to resist?

The captains also were unnerved by this, and they went to confer on the main boat in the fleet, the Maneater. At last they returned, and decided to go on.

"We're not stoppin' 'ere," the captain of the Bane of Lebennin announced. "We s'pect a trap – ambush, or somethin' o' that nature. 'Haps they're gonna sneak up and sink me ship when we're out pill'ging. We don't want that, aye?"

"Aye!" everyone called back. They commanded the slaves to row onward.

Soon some rouge bands of orcs came running toward them, warning that an unknown menace was crossing the fields of Gondor. They took them up into the ships, and rowed on ever more swiftly, growing becoming successively more fearful. They were almost to the bridge that Largg remembered from just two days before.

As they neared the bridge, and prepared to bring it down with the cannons, there was a commotion up near the first few boats. Largg could see a group of thirty or so horsed Men on the banks of the river.

"Hail!" the leader of the Men cried out, or at least Largg assumed it was something of that nature. He didn't speak the Tongue of the West. As Largg's boat neared the group, he could see him more clearly. His face was harsh and cruel, and he wore a silver crown. On his chest was pinned a green stone.

To his right stood an Elf, and to his left, a Dwarf. Largg puzzled overt this strange assortment of enemies. The mixing of orcs and Men on the corsairs was odd enough, but the union of elves and dwarves was unheard of. The thirty riders behind the speaker were of the same kin as he.

The speaker said something else in the Common Tongue. Everyone froze.

Confused, so Largg tapped Kareen on the shoulder. "What did he say?"

"He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir to Isildur, and comes to stop us in our 'evil'," Kareen said contemptuously.

Despite his companion's derisive tone, Largg was petrified upon hearing this. The heir to Isildur! The one Man that Sauron feared, standing right in front of them. He sensed a malice; a hidden magic that could destroy them all.

The captain of the Maneater seemed to struggle with the same fear, but an orc-captain standing by his side suddenly laughed, and the spell was broken. Orcs were the practical race. Largg remembered, and he suddenly felt ashamed for believing in myths and legends.

"Stop us!" Largg heard him yell. "You few, against the might of our fleet!"

Slowly Aragorn began to sing. Kareen, mostly to amuse himself, translated.

_All that is gold is not brilliant,  
__There are few who wander with purpose;  
__The mighty old Man will die fast, not wither,  
__Deep roots die in fire, not in frost._

_We'll reuse old charcoal, and burn ashes,  
__A single light in the vast darkness;  
__We'll use an old broken sword, not a new one,  
__A king too poor to afford even a crown._

Largg tried to laugh, but he couldn't; not when he knew that Kareen was butchering the Man's words. His real words carried some malice, so that, even though Largg did not understand, they frightened him. Once again, he felt fear. He was afraid that the King held some mythical menace. The orcs, however, were unaffected, and raucously laughed, even before Aragorn had finished the song.

"Where is your army!" they taunted. The orc-captain repeated it in the Common Tongue.

Aragorn replied in a loud voice, what Largg assumed was "Here," gesturing behind him. To Largg's horror, a ghostly shape could be seen standing by him. The dwarf shrank from it in terror.

He cried something that Largg did not understand, but there was not time for a translation. A shadow army was unleashed from behind Aragorn, and it advanced on the orcs. Largg, petrified, saw the dim shapes of many Men, mutilated and rotten.

Fear seized him, and all at once the many horrors of the old myths and legends became a reality. They found power over him, got inside his head, tore him apart.

He could not think. Instinct had taken over. Get away from them.

They didn't need to lay a hand on him. He was so convinced of their potency, so terrified of their touch, that he hurled himself over the edge of the boat.

Dark water closed above his head, and Largg was sinking. Alone. He would die alone. He felt as though it was the last chapter in his life, then conclusion to his life of tragedy. He had lost the trolls, Sheglock, Burk, Têrk, and everyone close to him, even Kareen. He had now lost himself.


	45. Chapter 45

**XLV**

**Ulûrk**

Ulûrk barely felt the sharp, cold steel of his enemy's sword pierce his chest.

Time seemed to Slow Down, stop Moving, and lose Order. Ulûrk realised, and had Known all along, that Death had been, from the Beginning, inevitable. Ever since he had Lost Zhatren, he had lost the Will to live. He had rushed forward to Death's open Arms. He had rushed forward with the Fury of Death in his bleeding Heart. He had been reckless, overcome with Rage. He had wanted Revenge; he had wanted to make the Men pay.

_He rushed into the siege towers as they were rolled up to the wall. Zhatren's body was left behind, lying on the grass, a feast for carrion. Fifteen and a half years that had all culminated in naught but a scanty meal for some unnamed vulture._

"_Watch it!" an orc yelled as Ulûrk climbed up into the tower, pushing through the clump of eager, adrenaline-filled bodies. The stench of sweat hung heavy in the air, and among it, the smell of bloodlust, of anticipation. Ulûrk surged ahead, right to the top, drawing his sword as the great engine rumbled up to the wall of Minas Tirith. Ulûrk looked into his sword, and it flickered in the dim light of the tower's interior – in it he saw the reflection of an eye, a young, sparkling brown eye that resembled Zhatren's._

Death had sparkled in his fey, hollow Eyes. He had never had a chance. Death, the fickle Friend, had turned upon Him. Had embraced Him.

In the moment the flashing Sword stabbed into his Chest, Ulûrk stared up into the glowering Face of his Murderer. He was a middle aged Man of perhaps Thirty, Naïve, perhaps, likely he had never Been outside his City, had experienced War, but had no Experience of Life. He might not have Known anything other than Death. He was a Machine, Ulûrk presumed, bred to Kill, not to Think, knowing no better, following Orders unquestioningly, like a Soldier ought. And, looking upon Him, into his Eyes that did not even do Ulûrk's the Dignity of looking Back, Ulûrk felt, to his immense Confusion, his Hate Vanish entirely.

He had heard that All becomes Clear in Death, but only Now that the End was upon Him, did he Know how True that was. He was going from the World, nothing Mattered anymore, and Ulûrk found that this Realisation allowed him to See things differently. All the Biases, all his Prejudices that had mattered during Life, were in an Instant swept away by Death. He felt as though his Soul had risen already from his Body, that he was one and part of the World, that his Eyes at last could See, from the Outside, objectively. In the fading Light of his rising Moon, he saw the Two of them. Killer and Killed. Orc and Man.

There is no Difference. Orc or Man, beneath the Cloak of the Skin, the Soul is Identical. We All are One, one Soul, one Community of Life. I was trained to Kill _them_, to do so Without Thinking, that They had no Soul. _I was trained to Kill _them_, to do so Without Thinking, that They had no Soul,_ my Killer is thinking. That is why He has no Pity. The same Words, that infallible Justification, flies through his Mind each Kill, as it flew through Mine. The same belief, I am _they_ to _them_. I am _the Enemy_ to _the Enemy_.

He Reeled, but not from Pain. His Body was left Behind. His Mind, his Soul, was reeling, shocked to See, in the Enemy, something reminiscent of Himself. Here was a Man – no, not a Man – a Person – who also Believed in his Country. Who was fighting, like Ulûrk, for his way of Life.

Ulûrk's Desire for Revenge disappeared. How could he take Revenge on One who had never. Wronged him? Had Ulûrk Instead been a Man raised in Gondor, this Man could well have been one of Ulûrk's Friends.

What Lies had Misled Him? What Beliefs of his had caused him to come out and Fight in this hopeless War?

Against the Power that now arises there is no victory. The West has failed. I fear that Minas Tirith shall fall. Night comes.

—No! My heart will not yet despair. Nay, though all things must come utterly to an end in time, Gondor shall not perish yet! Not though the walls be taken by a reckless foe that will build a hill of carrion before them! Hope and memory shall live still, in some hidden valley where the grass still is green.

Ulûrk could only put Words into his Mouth. But he felt as though he Knew, he was Empowered, able to Discern the Hearts of Others. He could Understand Them, but not only that – he could Sympathise with Them. Gondor had no Chance, yet it Fought On. The Man who had Slain Ulûrk would only be Slain himself later.

_With a soft thud, the tower bumped up against the wall, and, groaning, the door laboriously ground open._

_The first shafts of light broke into the stuffy, dank room. Squinting against the light, Ulûrk looked out, casting his eyes across the sea of faces. Raging, hating furious faces, nameless, numberless._

_Ulûrk pointed his sword out, toward them, staring without seeing into their cold eyes. They had killed Zhatren, mercilessly. Ulûrk would kill them in the same way, all of them._

But, when he Looked, Ulûrk didn't see Despair in the Man's Eyes. Nor did he See Hate. There was only a grim Determination, a determination to Fight On, against Common Sense, against All Odds, against the invincible Might of Sauron. In the Man's Eyes there was a Resolution to Endure to the End, to Stand Up for the Ideals he believed in. Ulûrk, Despite his Differences, despite being on the Other Side, admired that reckless Courage, that primeval Fortitude.

It was not this Man who killed Zhatren. The poor kid's death is not even remotely his fault. He never saw my friend. Why am I angry at him because his kinsman did a horrible deed for which there is no reconciliation?

But would he have done it, if he had been in the other's place? Would he have killed Zhatren as mercilessly as he stabbed me? Of course he would, Ulûrk, don't delude yerself! He wouldn't've hesitated!

Would I have done it? were I in his place, and Minas Tirith a city of orcs, with Men like savages swarming our walls. If I saw a young Man of only fifteen and a half, would I hesitate to shoot him? No, I can't lie to myself, the time's past fer lies, it's the time fer truth, revelation, realisation, openness, understanding. I would've acted the same. I would've killed Zhatren.

It is unbearable, this knowledge, o so much better to remain in ignorance and unthinking obedience, but no! it is not, for now that I know, now that I see, I wouldn't kill him! Truly I am fading into light and not darkness, for though the world dims I see more, know more, with each second. No orc or Man should be blamed, can be rightfully blamed, for what has happened here. War is at fault here.

It was by the Whim of Sauron and Denethor that the War had Arisen. The Soldiers who Fought in it were only Pieces on the Chessboard of Middle Earth. The Pawns were not responsible for the Players' Moves.

And as his Life drew to a Close, Ulûrk could See just how ludicrous is this notion, this unyielding and infallible notion of superiority, that pervades our thought, a disease that infects us; a parasite that has become so much a part of, the essence of what it is to be an orc, the notion that justifies all our actions, all our interactions. It is ridiculous, it is flawed, it is error. Orcs are no higher than Men, nor are Men higher than orcs, but we are so similar, I reckon that

The Man who Killed him probably had Friends, too. Maybe even a Wife. He could even have Children, small children of ten or so years, Hiding in the back of the Tower, Afraid for their Lives. The Man had a Life, just like Ulûrk had, he must have also made Plans for After.

Because I too had plans. I planned to meet Sheglock again, and see Morrick. I was gonna share my stories of heroism, I'd tell them to my friends in the night, at Sheglock's house, beside a roaring fire, with ale aplenty for all. I'd be married, have kids, raise a family. My son would've taken inspiration from me, my war stories his pride in the long era of piece, all the world together beneath one Eye…

_Ulûrk sighed as he collapsed on a bench by the side of the training compound. Captain Khentz had gone, and the other cadets were collecting their things, weary, but exhilarated. Zhatren came and plopped himself beside Ulûrk, not surprising the elder orc in the least. The kid had practically become his shadow that day._

"_Can you believe it this is real now we're training for battle we'll actually be out there one day on the battlefield fighting real Men for real valour and respect and honour!"_

"_Yep," Ulûrk replied, strangely not as annoyed by the kid now as he had been earlier in the day. "We're gonna be out there someday." He stared off toward the West, toward the far-off, exciting future of war, valour, courage, and triumph. "Then, once it's all over, yer gonna come back and grow up, kid, get yerself a woman, what d'ya say?"_

"_Me a family whoa you're looking way to far ahead I'm not gonna have one for a long time but are you do you already will you?"_

"_Yeah, I might not look like yer typical dad, but I'd like to have a son, raise him, ya know, ta make an impact on this world, somethin' ta last after I go. Yeah, I wanna get married. After the war," Ulûrk faded to silence, staring off into the distance. For the first time in a long while he was at peace, and he smiled as the sun tipped over the jagged peaks of the mountains in a spectacular flash of colour._

I told Sheglock, "the sun always sets." I was right. Should've remembered that.

Now, None of it was going to Happen. Death had not been one of Ulûrk's Plans. He Remembered, Back to that Day, so Long Ago, when Sheglock had made that Comment. When he had last Seen the Brothers. He had still been a Smith then.

So much has happened since those days. But it no longer matters, all that I did, it doesn't really matter now, it's what I know, what I learned, the stuff in my soul that counts. Wow, if Sheglock could hear me now, he'd have a good laugh. I'm a regular poet!

It Hit him at last, the Realisation that he would never See his Friends again, that there was no Time to Explain, to tell them that he was Okay, that he was Ready, that he Accepted what was Coming. His Eyes had been Opened. Death had been a Revelation. Now he was Equipped to Proceed to he next Step.

_He recklessly jumped out onto his foes._

Ulûrk Thanked the Man, whose Name he didn't Know. He thanked his Opponent for Elevating him. He was now Above Prejudice, he was Impartial, able to See, at last, Both Points of View. He had been able to See his Murderer Clearly, not as Man or Orc, but as a Person, doing what He had to do, for the sake of His Country. Ulûrk didn't Blame Him. He was not Angry to be Dying.

The Man had moved on, Leaving Ulûrk. Unconcerned. Going on with his Life, Fighting On through the War, until his Time of Revelation came.

Two Races. Two Cities. One People.

In the End, their Beliefs, their Hopes and Dreams, were the Same.

Ulûrk felt no Pain. Only Peace.

Looking one last time across the burning city, he smiled and closed his eyes.


	46. Chapter 46

**XLVI**

**Burk**

Burk grunted as he pushed on the heavy catapult, wheeling it down to face the tower he had been instructed to destroy. So far the war had been going very well. The first two rounds of shot had infuriated their enemies, and now the Men had let down their defences. Burk was one of the orcs still launching rocks up at them. Many of the others had begun to scale the wall, using ladders and siege towers.

All this time, the Nazgûl wheeled above the city, and where they passed, the opposition cowered. The soldiers of Mordor pressed onward.

"Stop shooting!" a captain cried, running past Burk. "You'll hit more of our folks than theirs!"

"Yessir!" Burk replied, leaving the catapult.

He ran over to the gate, around which a considerable bulk of Sauron's force was gathered. "They're bringing the ram!" someone's voice cried out. "Grond!"

Burk felt overwhelmed by a chilling presence, and turned to see the Witch-King pass through the crowd of orcs, a hundred yards ahead of him. Following the Nazgûl-lord was a great ram, made of iron, shaped as a dragon.

The Men shot down burning arrows, but Grond was wrought of metal, and did not catch fire. Several of the carriers were hit and fell, but they were dragged away to medical tents in the back lines, and others took their place. As it passed Burk, the orc in front of him was struck by a large rock thrown from above, and Burk pushed through the crowd to take his spot.

Along with almost a hundred other orcs, he pushed Grond on, slowly coming close to the gate. The crowd took up a chant. "Grond! Grond!"

Eventually they stopped. Silence fell on the crowd.

Two great trolls pulled back the ram, and let it go. It crashed against the gate with an enormous _boom_.

But the gate of Minas Tirith held. Again they lifted the ram, back, and let go. Again the gate withstood the blow.

The Witch-King rode to the front "Open, in Sauron's name!" he cried, and the ram was brought up a third time. It crashed into the gate, and a great cloud of dust rose up, obscuring the entrance. Timber flew everywhere. The gate was breached.

The Witch-King began to ride forward. But he stopped, and, as the dust settled, Burk could see a white rider ahead. He was the only one who held his ground against the Captain of the Nazgûl.

"You cannot enter here," he said simply. The orcs behind Burk roared in laughter.

The Witch-King, however, paused. The enemy, who Burk realised must be the wizard, went on. "Go back to the abyss prepared for you! Go back! Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your master! Go!" For a brief second Burk considered taking the advice and backing up – he did not want to be caught in the crossfire of a wizard duel.

The Witch-King laughed this time, a furious laugh, outraged, perhaps, as his moment of hesitation. Burk could understand, as he too had felt a moment of weakness, and he was ashamed of it. He steeled himself, determined not to run.

The lord of the Nazgûl lifted his hood. The gold crown hovered in midair above his shoulders, causing Burk to shiver. But he no longer felt the fear of the white wizard, now that he saw, unveiled, the mighty lord that stood between him and the enemy.

"Old fool!" he hissed. "This is _my_ hour. Do you not know Death when you see it? Die, now, and curse in vain!"

With these last words, he lifted his sword high, and it flamed with some ancient magic. Burk waited, ready to storm forward behind his mighty leader. Victory was in their grasp. All around the sky lit, the sun rose. It was the dawn of the age of the orc.

Then, somewhere, the crowing of a cock. So foreign and out of place, so blissfully ignorant, did it seem in this drama of surrealism, that everyone turned, in spite of themselves, to see. And they saw riders – thousands of riders, lined along the north. Horns called. People were screaming.

With a yell of frustration, the Witch-King turned away from the gate and victory, and fled to meet the new foes. The Men of Rohan, it seemed, had come to Gondor's aid. Burk stared for a second into the merciless eyes of the many men on the other side of the gate, and he saw that hope had rekindled in them. Abandoning all valour, he fled.

For the next few moments, there was complete chaos. The Men of Rohan tore through Sauron's ranks, unstoppable. Several of them bore bows, and sent arrows flying over their heads. Several hit Burk, but his mail protected him from harm.

Burk ran for his life, running parallel to the walls of Minas Tirith, as the riders surrounded them. How could the perfect plan have turned so ill? Sauron had been guaranteed to win. The Witch-King had been seconds from entering the city, victorious over Gondor.

Now it had all fallen apart. They would need to start all over again. More people would die.

Burk sighed, looking up at the gray ceiling of clouds. Hadn't this all been to spare the lives of Mordor's soldiers? Hadn't the entire point of the cannonball-heads and the rest of it been to protect the orcs? Why had it failed? Where had the Men found the will to fight on?

Burk thought he knew the answer. The horsemen hadn't been under the shadow until today. Their lands had not yet been threatened by Sauron. And they had reason to fight Him, as He had allied himself with Saruman, their enemy. But Saruman had fallen. He had failed Sauron. And now, Rohan had decided to have its revenge.

The riders swarmed over the battlefield like lava down the side oif Orodruin, covering everything. Only a few spots remained free of enemies – the rocks jutting out of the side of the mountain. These were the areas near the great _mûmakil_ from Harad.

Burk found his refuge by one of the great beasts, and hovered a while beneath, trying to avoid being trampled. One of the Men atop the Mûmak saw him, and threw down a rope.

"Climb on!" he cried in Burk's tongue. Burk grabbed onto the rope and they hauled him up.

In the war-tower that had been erected on the creatures back, Burk found many fellow orcs in addition to the Men. Clearly, he was not the only one who had been chased off. He pulled out a slingshot (as he didn't have a bow – he was a foot soldier), and tried to find some pebbles.

"You won't need that," one of the orcs said to him. "The Enemy won't get close enough for that thing's range."

Burk nodded and pocketed the weapon.

One of the dark-skinned Men raised his head and sniffed the air. "Wind is changed," he observed in broken Mordor-Tongue.

"Those Southrons are pretty attentive," Burk's fellow soldier told him. "Likely he speaks the truth."

"Does it matter?" Burk asked.

"It'll break up Sauron's cloud."

Burk laughed at the irony. "That cloud hasn't done ya much good, has it?"

The other orc sighed. "No. But it's destruction will fill our foes with new hope."

Sure enough, a new wind started blowing, coming from the Sea far to the South. It felt nice and cool, and for the moment Burk didn't really card what effect it had on Sauron and His plan.

The world lightened. As the clouds broke, rays of pure sunlight poked through to the ground. Looking across the fields, Burk saw golden beams of light illuminating the dark smoke below. They looked like glowing columns of molten gold. There was actually something quite nice about the scene.

But the others had been right. As Sauron's cloud blew away toward the North, the Men below cried out in joy. Their hearts were seemingly lightened. Burk swore. He hadn't thought that the smoke had made much difference. It was only now, without it, that he realised how useful it had been.

And, at that moment, another Mûmak rode up next to theirs, and an orc leaned out from the structure.

"Got news, both good and bad!" he cried. The other Mûmak adjusted his speed, so that the two were jogging side by side.

"Théoden, the old King of Rohan, is slain!"

At this there were many cheers from Burk's Mûmak, and Burk himself was amazed. The king had already been killed! He briefly wondered who had done it, but it didn't matter. Hopefully his fall would dismay the riders. Burk smiled at the irony. The saviours would become as dispirited as those they were trying to save.

"However," the messenger-orc went on, as an arrow from below shot up and buried itself into an orc near Burk, throwing him down into the mêlée, "Rohan fights on. King Éomer has taken his father's place already, and is more furious than ever. They follow him as though he had been their king all along, and their grief is postponed, I guess, till the war ends."

A communal groan arose from Burk's Mûmak.

"That was the bad news?" an orc behind Burk asked apprehensively.

"No," he replied, and Burk was unnerved. What else had gone wrong?

"What is it!" several people cried, when the news-orc said no more. Two southrons leaned over to shoot, and one came back up with an arrow in his eye.

The messenger-orc took a deep breath. "The Witch-King is dead."

Silence followed these words. Stunned disbelief. The only sounds were the yells and agonised screams from below. _Impossible!_ Burk thought. _He can't die. The Nazgûl can't die._

"What?" another orc on the Mûmak finally managed. "Not the Witch-King who is Captain of the Nazgûl! I didn't know there was another."

"No other would dare use that name," the news-orc responded.

The orc who had first greeted Burk now spoke again. He voiced the question that was in the front of Burk's mind. "How?"

"He was slain by the king's daughter, Éo—"

He was interrupted by the shocked outcry of his listeners, but also by the Man who fell from the tower and landed facedown in front of him, an arrow in his back.

"Daughter?!?" the audience cried in shock. Burk was appalled. "The horse-lords send their women off to war?" he cried.

The messenger shrugged. "Apparently. Anyway, it was the king's daughter, Éowyn. She saw her father fall before her, and saw the Witch-King advance on him." He paused to duck a volley of arrows, three of which hit Men. "The Captain was hoping that his steed would devour the king's body," he restarted, raising his voice over the groans of the injured, "and by doing so, dishonour the dead Man's spirit. Of course, Men don't have souls like orcs, but anyway…" a pause for another arrow. Someone shoved the groaning Men off. "No medicine up here, they'd get infected and die anyway." There was relative quiet again. "It was another way to attack the Enemy's resolve," the news-orc hypothesised.

"Did you see this?" Burk asked.

"I saw the body of the steed. There is naught left of the Lord of the Nazgûl save a black rag, and a golden crown. But I heard of the event from the Lord Zul-Därsch."

Another Man toppled from the tower. _Better to be low down than high up,_ Burk realised. Where he was, the flanks of the Mûmak protected him from direct fire.

"Curse this wind!" some of the orcs cried. "Since its arrival, all has gone ill!"

"Curse the horsemen," the messenger said, "but don't waste our curses on the wind. Even as we speak, it brings the mighty fleet out of Umbar closer and closer." More yelling, more falling, one landed on an orc this time, bringing both to the ground. "Our reinforcements are almost here!"

Hearing this, Burk was filled with new hope, for he had forgotten all about the ships. His friend Largg had gone off on one. Burk was really looking forward to seeing him again. He looked around at the faces of those in the tower with him, and sighed. He didn't know their names any more than he knew that of the Mûmak. He was surrounded by strangers. It would be nice to again have someone he knew to talk to, and share stories with.

So it was with hope, even as all seemed to fall apart, that Burk hopped off the Mûmak, once they had gotten out of the central brawl. The others he did not know folowed him as he made his way toward the Anduin. And they were not the only ones. A large crowd of orcs had gathered along the riverside, waiting, perhaps, for their own friends.

A black sail appeared just beyond a bend in the river, and Burk's heart lifted.

"The Corsairs of Umbar!" the Men shouted from behind. "So Belfalas is taken, and Lebennin is gone! The Corsairs are upon us! It is the last stroke of doom!"

And Burk revelled in their fear, as he knew the tide was turning. He and Largg, together, would be unstoppable. He waited, and the boats rapidly made their way northward.

From far off, Burk heard a solitary voice begin singing in the Common Tongue, and the words of the song carried to where he stood.

_Out of doubt, out of dark, to the day's rising  
__I came singing in the sun, sword unsheathing.  
To hope's end I rode, and to heart's breaking!  
Now for wrath! Now for ruin! And a red nightfall!_

Somehow he knew that the singer was the new King of Rohan, Éomer, and that he was preparing for a last suicidal march on the folk of Mordor. But Burk was unafraid. Largg would be by his side. Together, they could take on all of Gondor.

The soldiers of Mordor began to sing back in reply, chanting one of the rallying songs that they had learned in boot camp. Burk knew the song well, so he joined in, smiling at the confusion over the words that had been altered for the occasion.

_From Mountain topped by flame and ash,__  
We come! We come!  
From Gate of darkest obsid'an,  
We come! We come!  
To shatter your shields,  
To cast down your walls,  
We come! We come!  
Now Rohan's bane – Éomer's fall,  
We come! We come!_

They were just beginning the second verse, some orcs even dancing with renewed joy, when, suddenly, a cry rose from those nearest the ships. And all eyes turned onto the great black ships, the foremost of which was named the Bane of Lebennin. But, to Burk's horror and wonder, the word "Lebennin" had been crudely scratched out, and above it, in gold paint, in the Common Tongue, had been written "Sauron".

The Bane of Sauron advanced, and from the mizzenmast a banner was flown, white, and on it was a silver tree and seven stars, with a crown above.

Then fear overcame Burk, as the ship was filled with their foes, and they hopped out, cruelly hewing down all in their way. He turned and ran, ran toward the riders of Rohan, for there was no other path to choose.

A light rain started, and the fires of Sauron were extinguished. All above the battlefield, a foul reek hovered. It was the smoke of death.

At last, able to run no more, Burk threw down his sword and collapsed onto his knees. He couldn't take it anymore. Largg was gone. Sauron's plan had fallen to pieces. He had invested everything in the army. He had not even been to his father's funeral because of training. He had no real life outside the military, and the camaraderie within it. All else, journeys to Dorezátz, his ailing mother leaning on his shoulder, looking at the sunrise for the last time, his younger sister's wedding – all else was not real. There was nothing beyond war. While Gondor endured, all there would ever be was war. There had been a chance – had Sauron won, then maybe, but He hadn't, so that chance was gone. _The life of an orc is a life of war_, Burk's father had always told him. Burk had no other life, only illusions, memories lacking verisimilitude.

Now it was gone, fallen apart.

He heard the galloping of hooves, and looked up to see a sword coming straight at his neck. He did not move. There was naught left in his life.


	47. Chapter 47

**XLVII**

**Sheglock**

The day dragged on in the city of Barad-dûr. The Nazgûl were constantly gone, and little news of the War came to the common citizens of the City. Sheglock could tell that the Eye of Sauron was focused far from His fortress.

Nevertheless, there were still news orcs brimming with tidings, though Sheglock couldn't fathom how they knew so swiftly of events that were happening so far away. "The war is going well," they reported the first day, to no one's surprise. Sheglock sighed, hoping it would end quickly. He was eager to see Ulûrk again, and to return home.

It wasn't that he hated Barad-dûr – he actually was having a good time in the City, tending Sauron's wargs. He had spoken several times with Iarék, they had some interesting discussions, and he sensed the budding seeds of a friendship. And he was very happy for and supportive of his brother and Firri, now his brother's fiancée. No, that was not the problem.

Sheglock's problem was that he felt a strong tie to his fatherland. Garkhôn was his home, and where he felt he belonged. It was the town where he had lived all thirty-four years of his life, the town he had never left before the journey to Dorezátz. It was changing now, and he wanted to be there while it changed, perhaps so that he could change with it, and not be left behind. Maybe to have some say in the direction that it took.

More than that, even, was a simple desire for his old life, before Alzág and Gondor had interrupted it. He wanted to sleep in his own bed, work in his own job. He sighed – he knew full well that the latter was never going to transpire. Gortog had closed the first shop, and there was nothing left but the one in town. Even so, Sheglock wanted to work alongside his old friends, not the strangers of Barad-dûr.

"I miss them," he told Iarék late that evening. His friend sighed.

"I miss my folks sometimes too. I used to live in Nurn. Nurn, land of the great green rolling hills, acre upon acre of coloured farmland, stretching across the gently undulating land like the folds in a beautiful patchwork quilt… O, my homeland, my beautiful, fertile fatherland. I moved here after my parents died, when the silent, isolated land became filled with the haunting whisperings of the wind, the spectres gliding over the rippling grass… My mom passed away in my youth, my father raised me, and I lived under his sturdy roof until he too parted this callused, war-ridden world, when I was a few months short of twenty."

"I'm so sorry to hear that," Sheglock said awkwardly. He was moved, and truly sorry, but it was hard to tell whether Iarék wanted or was requesting consolation.

"It's not your fault, it's the natural progression of life," he said. "It's just that I'm different – I don't really want to return. I can't return. The inspiration is gone. What trees once were poetry itself, what soft hills once were the flow of molten gold into the sculptor's mould, now they are hollow but for ghosts and memories… I'm afraid that I cannot claim to feel quite the same level of connexion to my homeland as you seem to carry."

Sheglock sighed, vaguely deducing that Iarék had even more of a connexion to his birthplace than he did. "I don't even like the town – it's funny. But there's no where else I'd rather be…"

Iarék smiled. "The war ought to end shortly, for never have I seen a country more dedicated to swift efficiency than ours, especially in the realm of warfare. I reckon you'll be home in no time."

The next day dawned (though the smoke prevented any light from reaching the barren Plateau of Gorgoroth). New reports of the war had come in, and they were less favourable. The Men of Rohan had joined the fight, and Aragorn, the rightful king of Gondor, had conjured some ancient magic and destroyed the corsairs. Barad-dûr became busy again, as though it was waking up. Already Sauron began to prepare the next army, for a second, greater assault.

None of this, however, concerned Sheglock, as much as the news that the soldiers out there were dying. Ulûrk was among them. Sheglock prayed that his friend would survive. It was asking for a miracle. But Sheglock, remembering his brother's miraculous recovery, knew that Sauron could work miracles, if He had the whim.

But the news they received at midday shattered Sheglock's trust in Sauron.

"The Witch-King is slain!!!"

Bells tolled from the heights of the great fortress, and, all across the City, a moment of silence was called for in his name. Such was the might of Sauron that, for a full minute, all the orcs in the City stopped what they were doing and bowed heir heads.

"I suppose your thought are in harmony with my own, to an extent," Iarék whispered to Sheglock once work had resumed. "and you too are thinking – daring to imagine – that, perhaps, Sauron is not invincible after all."

"It's about trust in him," interjected Morrick, ambling over.

"Look to the bottom line, His foundation," Iarék retorted, "He bases His might on nothing. Naught but a tiny golden Ring, supposedly somewhere out there, lost in this vast world. Would you know?– I reckon It doesn't even exist!"

Morrick sighed, and Sheglock could see that his brother was arguing to reassure himself. He had been, evidently, devastated by the news. Morrick didn't like to see that Sauron was fallible.

"Look, bro," Sheglock said encouragingly. "So, we'll probably lose this battle. It's just that – one battle. We haven't lost the war, right?"

"No…" Morrick said, sighing. "I wonder when our folks will get back."

"Get back?" Iarék asked. "You two do not know Sauron as I do, if you believe that He is a quitter. So far there's been no word of a retreat."

"They're still fighting?" Sheglock asked in horror.

"Given what I know of our Master and His ways, such would be a likely supposition. And there shall be no retreat, not before the last orc falls, defiant, before the unyielding walls of whitest marble. Sauron fights on, He will not accept defeat, no He will not."

Morrick began to say something about how that wasn't very logical. Sheglock barely heard. He turned pale, glancing, panic-stricken, at Morrick, who was rambling on, uncomprehending. "Ulûrk!"

Sheglock saw comprehension light up his brother's face. Then logic and calculation. "He knew the risks," Morrick said heavily.

Sheglock instantly flared up. He couldn't believe that Ulûrk would be dismissed like this. He couldn't believe that Morrick would think that his joining the army was no more than a gamble – a game of probability. "knew the risks! Do you realise what you're saying? Can you hear yourself?!"

Both Iarék and Morrick backed away, affronted. Sheglock didn't heed them, but kept on yelling.

"He's dead. Dead. D-E-A-D. do you not see it? Do you not care?"

"Of course I care!" Morrick started. "I'm just saying that he knew the—"

"There shouldn't have been any risk! We outnumbered Gondor ten to one! No one – no one should've died."

"Calm down," Morrick said gently. Sheglock ignored him.

"Yo!" he shouted at one of the most recent messengers. "Who do you reckon will made it back from the war?"

"Won't be no one," the orc replied uneasily.

"Not one person?" Sheglock repeated.

"'Fraid not, beggin' yer pard'n."

Sheglock turned back to his companions, white-hot fury blazing in his heart and erupting through his eyes.

"Like I said—" Morrick began. Matter-of-factly, evenly, detachedly, impersonally.

"Shut the hell up!" Sheglock yelled with sudden realisation. Morrick instantly clamped his mouth shut.

"I know whose fault it is!" Sheglock cried, delirious. "I know whose fault Ulûrk's death is! It's Sauron's fault. He should have never lost the battle. It's His fault!"

Morrick got angry at last, as Sheglock knew he would. It was only appropriate. Now at least he'd have someone to yell with. And he wouldn't take it back – as there was truth in his accusation.

"Sauron didn't fail!" Morrick growled.

"Then who did?" Sheglock challenged, his voice surprisingly steady, even though inside there was a raging conflagration.

"It was not Sauron. It was the fault of His followers. Sauron is only as mighty as we make Him. It is the fault of those who do not fully support Him." Morrick paused, and then added, "It is the fault of people like you."

"Shut — up!" Sheglock muttered, furious. He was not yelling. He was beyond yelling. Every sylable of his voice shook with uncontrolled fury. "Don't — you — dare — accuse — _me_ — of — _his_ — death!" He wished that he had left Morrick in Dorezátz to die.

"I won't take it back," Morrick said coldly, staring coldly into Sheglock's eyes. Sheglock strode forward and smacked him hard in the face. He flinched and recoiled.

"I'm leaving!" Sheglock roared, regressing to screaming. "I never should've come here! I'm going home, and staying there!"

With that he strode off, past a stunned Iarék, past Firri, who had arrived some time back and been watching from the sidelines, and out the front Gate. Rage fuelled him, and he mounted Merân and shot off, away from the cursed city. He hated it now, form the depth of his heart, and he vowed never to return.

As he rode he had some time to cool off, and his rage subsided to sadness. He felt pearly tears alongside his cheeks, blown across his jowl by the wind of his riding. He slowed to a stop, pausing to let his grief trickle down to his mouth, where it tasted bitter and salty. The cool evening air stirred blow across his brow. He was alone, and no one would disturb him.

In time he got up mechanically onto his warg's back. After an hour or two more of riding, Sheglock stopped again, abruptly, pulling to the side of the deserted street, and trying to find a spot to spend the night. He let his mind wander, and put his grief away for the moment, overwhelmed and unable to bear it yet. With a jolt of excitement, he realised that he would be spending tomorrow night in his own bed.

As he searched around for a nice, sheltered spot to sleep in, Sheglock saw movement in the corner of his eye. Perturbed, he followed the shadow, which moved quickly. The creature, whatever it was, turned his head toward Sheglock, who caught a flicker of pale green light from unseen eyes.

"Gollum?" Sheglock asked, bewildered, remembering his brother's descriptions of the creature. They seemed to match. "What are you doing here?"

"Nothing, precioussss," he hissed. Sheglock shrugged, and Gollum slunk away.

For a moment Sheglock wondered what Gollum was doing out here, tried to make connexions, get to the bottom, solve the mysteries.

Then he realised that he really didn't care.

He was tired of it all, tired of his life, which had become one continual melodrama. He just wanted to be able to settle down again with an ordinary routine, and forget about Gollum, and Gondor, and Alzág, and Sauron.

_To hell with it,_ he thought in annoyance, determined then and there to travel all the way. He fed Merân some meat from his pocket, then patted her on the head.

"You ready for a long journey?" he asked, hopping back on. He sped down the deserted road under the stars.

The moon was high in the sky when he at last arrived in Garkhôn. It was as quiet as a grave, devoid of the many screaming merchants that usually roamed the street. It was well past midnight, and the town slept. Sheglock merrily rode through the silent streets, toward his home.

He smiled as he pulled up in front of his house. He dismounted, led Merân to the stables (where she instantly fell to sleep), and kicked open the door. His house was just as he had left it, and he was glad to see this. He sighed, looking around at the familiar décor as he undressed. This was home. This was how life should be.

He climbed into bed, lay down, and closed his eyes. Hopefully, this was how it would always be.


	48. Chapter 48

**XLVIII**

**Morrick**

"What was that?" Firri asked, a bewildered expression on her face, walking over to where Morrick stood. He sighed heavily, massaging the spot on his check that his brother had slapped.

"Sheglock has gone," Iarék told her, his voice betraying as much confusion as any of the rest of them.

Morrick barely listened. He was overcome with frustration. He was frustrated that Sauron had lost the war. He was frustrated with Ulûrk's death. He was frustrated by Sheglock's departure.

"I'm sorry," Firri said genuinely, leaning forward to comfort him.

"I'm fine," Morrick lied. He didn't want to talk it over. For once, he felt more like acting.

"It's hard," she remarked. "I also didn't except Him to lose. He shouldn't have – it was a glitch. The Men lucked out."

"And that cost my friend his life," Morrick replied, staring at his feet.

"The orc you wrote that letter to?" Firri asked. "He was a soldier?"

"Yes – he joined just as we were leaving. Remember Ulûrk, the old smith?"

"Vaguely. I'm so sorry to hear about it."

Iarék hesitantly spoke up. "So am I, though we all know the truth of the words you spoke earlier. Indeed, _oft doth ire make wise orcs of us fools_. As you said yourself, there are risks in war."

"There shouldn't've been." Morrick replied edgily. "I said that out of anger, and rage makes us rash and stupid. But Sauron should never have lost!"

"Sauron is not invincible…" Iarék said. Morrick grew angry with him, as he did with anyone who dared to show disloyalty.

"No He isn't. Because people don't have enough trust in Him. If we all believed in Him, he would be indestructible. But we don't, not in the least. Some orcs, yourself included, think we'd be better off without Him, don't you?"

"I simply believe that we can get along without government. I do not believe in the use or benefit of _any_ rulers or countries."

"Why not?" Morrick challenged.

"Orcs acting on their own will live more peaceably, and be happier."

"Assuming they had unlimited access to all resources."

"If they did not, they would share amongst themselves, to the greater good. We are not evil at heart."

Morrick sighed, amazed by Iarék's idealism, which was worse than Sheglock's. "Not all people are willing to share."

Iarék pondered this for a while. "Then they are free to sell it," he suggested. "If they insist upon the retention of private property, the free market is the best market. Though I will not deny that the abolition of property would be better."

"Yet orcs still would lay claim to things, even if you 'abolish property'."

"Yes…"

"And monopolies would develop, with no government to prevent them from doing so. That means that the person with the only supply of something could ask any price for it. That is how leadership develops. Say that one orc has all food that there was in our town. He says, 'Obey me or starve.' What do you do?"

"Hopefully no one would do that," replied Iarék, with an infuriatingly optimistic smile pasted on his face. Morrick glared.

"What if _I_ did?"

"I suppose I could move," suggested Iarék.

"Say I have the only supply in all of Middle Earth, then. Of food, or another essential item. You have no choice but to obey me. Obey me or die."

"I could die," he replied defiantly.

Morrick laughed, reminded so much of his brother.

"And for what purpose. No songs would remember your name. Maybe you think you'd be the great rebel. The real world isn't like that, Iarék."

"There have been rebels before," Iarék said quietly.

"And I'd count you as one of them! Sure, people have rebelled against Sauron before, but they are seldom remembered. And never successful."

"I'd follow you, hating you the whole time," Iarék decided.

"You'd grow to love me. I'd feed you, give you shelter and protection, and you'd soon realise that you were better off under me than by yourself."

"Even so—"

"You would be entirely dependant me. Sauron is that type of ruler. And it works. We are happy, and He makes sure that we, His subjects, are rewarded if we obey Him. We are disciplined if we do not. But still, that discipline is necessary. It keeps order to the country. If there was no penalty for committing a crime I am confidant that many orcs would. Compare us with the orcs abroad who are further from Sauron's influence. They strive always to lead. They are loyal to themselves alone. And how easily are they dispatched? So can you really tell me that a monarch is bad?"

"Yes."

"Logically?"

"No."

Morrick made a gesture of triumph Iarék watched him with what seemed to be a bemused frown.

"Not all the world is logical," Iarék said leisurely.

"Pardon?"

"Art, my greatest pleasure, does little to advance society. It advances something else."

"It elevates us above the Men?" Morrick asked sarcastically. Iarék shook his head.

"No. It elevates us to their level."

As provoked as he was by this last response, Morrick was unable to respond, for at that moment, bells rang out from Barad-dûr. Sauron was calling all citizens of the great City to attention. All conversation stopped instantly.

"Citizens of Mordor," called a voice from high above, magnified many times by some science or magic. "We have need of your aid! Oft has your ruler Sauron aided you, now is your time to repay Him. Gondor marches on our country!"

"The Lord Sauron the Great is calling a draft. You shall train for the five days that it will take the Enemy to reach us. Yes, Sauron has soldiers, but He will take no risks this time. There are twenty thousands of orcs already geared for war, who are already by the Gate, waiting. The strength of orcs in this city is a good eighty thousands. All told, Mordor shall go to war with a hundred thousand orcs, against what Lord Älbaschêr counted as five thousand Men and one thousand horse. There is no way we can lose. Aid Sauron, and your rewards will be great. Desert Him, and face punishment."

The announcement ended, and all across the City a chatter started.

"Does He mean women?" Firri asked.

"No," Morrick replied. "I don't want you to get hurt."

"I can't stand the thought of losing you!" she cried. Morrick laughed.

"The odds are on our side. There will be one hundred thousand soldiers between me and the front line. And if Gondor makes it through them, I'll die whether or not I'm in the battle. We both would."

"It won't happen," Iarék said. He sounded, to Morrick, almost disappointed.

"Gondor has the Ring. Just because Aragorn didn't use it at Minas Tirith doesn't mean he can't."

"Aragorn doesn't have the Ring," Iarék said with certainty. Morrick looked askance at him.

"Then who does?" he asked.

"No one," replied Iarék, "because It doesn't exist."

To that Morrick found no reply.

Morrick left the next morning to start his accelerated training as a soldier. The courses were taught outside the city, in a great field, by one of the Nazgûl. A great host of orcs came out the first day, and covered the plain. Morrick could barely see the Ringwraith, though his voice carried well, and Morrick could clearly hear him.

"Greetings!" he cried. "I am Cherëdorn of the Nazgûl, and this is my steed, Drádonor." He gestured to the enormous bat-like creature beside him. "I am here to train you to fight. Not to fight well, but just to fight. It is likely that you never will need to defend yourselves, yet Sauron does not want to send backup who cannot even wield a sword."

"We will teach you the basics of sword fighting, though you need not skill, as your sheer numbers shall crush the opposition. Now, we shall check the skills you already have. Those skilled with the sword need no further training."

Several Captains then split the group into smaller sections, and they were tested. Those who had even minimal skills were passed, and only those with no experience were put to training. Morrick was no expert at swordsmanship, but his inspector deemed him "satisfactory", and after two hours of waiting, Morrick was told to return to work.

He sighed as he returned to the Tower, annoyed at the prospect of going to war with no skill whatsoever, but understanding that Sauron did not possess the resources to train eighty thousand orcs in five days.

"You're back?" Firri asked.

"Yes. I have enough skill, apparently."

She groaned loudly. "You, skill? I've never seen you wield a sword! If you get hurt, it's Sauron's fault."

"I won't get hurt," Morrick told her confidently, putting full trust in Sauron. He convinced himself that his faith had not been, and could not be, shaken.

The next few days passed uneventfully, with the exception being the announcement that Gondor had reclaimed Minas Morgul. "We let them take it," the messenger replied offhandedly. "It's essentially empty right now, with all our forces moving toward the Gate. When we annihilate them at the Morannon, we'll take it back."

Also, the names of the major captains leading the enemy army were now common knowledge throughout Barad-dûr, and, quite possibly, Mordor. The advancing army was apparently announcing them every few hours. Aragorn, the heir to Elendil, and suspected Ring-Bearer, was there. Gandalf the White, the Wizard, marched with them. Finally, Prince Imrahil of Dol Armoth marched on Mordor.

Bu none of these Men (or wizards), however valiant, could fight against the might of Sauron. Not even with the Ring, Morrick thought, could they win. He was sure that the last march was more symbolic than strategic, a last honourable fight before its death. That was the problem with Men – they were impractical. They honoured honour over loyalty. That was the reason that Sauron was a better leader, and the reason that Mordor would surely win the upcoming battle.

So it was with confidence that Morrick said farewell to Firri, and prepared to set out for the Gate.

"We'll make the marriage official when I return," he said to her. "Until then, don't fret about me."

"I won't," Firri promised. "But don't return here. Return to Garkhôn, our hometown. I'm going to be travelling there with Iarék tomorrow."

"Aren't you going to war?" Morrick asked Iarék. "It's mandatory."

"I can't fight for a cause in which I do not believe," he replied.

"Okay, whatever." Morrick replied, abandoning his efforts to force Iarék's allegiance. "You two go, then. Firri, I can see that you're tired of this City."

"I am. And you've paid your due, by going to war and all."

"I might not agree, especially as I don't expect to even unsheathe my sword." He smiled, turning to Iarék. "Look after her. But don't you mess with her!"

He grinned back with a friendly smile. "Don't worry, girls don't interest me."

Firri rolled her eyes. "And I don't need protection. You call _me_ paranoid, for worrying about you going off to war. I'm just travelling from Barad-dûr to Garkhôn!"

Morrick waved one last time, kissed Firri on the lips (realising, with a start, that it was the first time he had ever done so), and headed out the front gate of the tower.

It seemed as though the entire city was emptying, as an endless stream of orcs poured out of Mordor's capital. Morrick was neither in the front nor the back of the lines. The army, being made up of ordinary citizens, opposed to trained soldiers, marched poorly and out-of-sync. At length they gave up marching altogether and simply walked.

The first night was chaotic, as the eighty thousand orcs had to find somewhere to sleep, yet there was none. Many of them just lay across the road, and Morrick doubted that anyone could have travelled that way that night. Breakfast was an equally chaotic affair, with a relatively small number of officers and captains struggling to hand out meat to the many draftees.

The next day they travelled on, coming by twilight to the Black Gate. Seeing the tremendous structure, Morrick again marvelled at Sauron's power, and felt a great sense of security. There was no way to bring down His great country. Not even the Ring could aid Gondor now.

They spent the night in the thousands of tents that had been set up in the plains of the Morannon. Day arrived quickly, and soon they could hear the distant blowing of horns. By midday they heard even the stamping of thousands of feet.

They had sent a small squadron of orcs as scouts in the early morning, and only two of them returned. They reported that they had tried to ambush the Men, but failed.

"Morons," Morrick heard their superior growl. "That was suicide, it was!"

The two injured orcs were sent off to the back lines, where a makeshift hospital had been constructed. It was not very large, but Sauron expected few of his orcs to actually do any fighting. They were there for moral support, and, of course, intimidation warfare.

Morrick had a decent spot from where he could see what was happening, without risking becoming involved in the conflict. He was a good quarter-mile behind the actual gate, in the flat plain of the Morannon, between the Ephel Dúath and the Ered Lithui. The plain just past the gate was several miles long, so the orcs were all generally pretty close to the Gate itself. However, the trained soldiers were far closer, within only a few yards of the gate at their closest.

The sound of the marching stopped, and Morrick knew that the enemy army had reached the other side of the gate, though he couldn't see over it. "Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth," Morrick heard come faintly from the other side, in the Common Tongue. "Justice shall be done upon Him. For wrongfully He has made war upon Gondor and wrested its lands. Therefore, the King of Gondor demands that He atone for His evils, and depart then forever. Come forth!"

Just fifty yards to Morrick's left, a horsed Man was pushing himself through the crowd. But this was no Enemy. He radiated might and power, and rode with unparalleled confidence. When he neared the Gate, the sentries began beating drums. The gate slowly swung open, and the rider that Morrick had seen burst forward.

Knowing Sauron, Morrick assumed that He had a plan – some tactic to bring despair unto His Enemy. Sauron knew that hopelessness dampened the enemy soldiers' fighting spirit. So he was not surprised that Sauron would first send a messenger to parley. Obviously they were not trying to compromise.

"I am the Mouth of Sauron," the rider introduced himself. Morrick saw a group of Men ahead of him. He assumed that they were Aragorn, Gandalf, and Imrahil. Several others stood behind, who might have been elves, but that they were soldiers of Gondor. The Wizard stood in front, and it was he that the Mouth of Sauron addressed.

"Is there anyone in this rout with the authority to treat with me?" he asked scornfully, using the Common Tongue. "Or indeed with wit to understand me?" He turned to the Man just behind Gandalf, who Morrick assumed was the King, as he fancied he could see the glint of green on his chest, and knew that green was the colour of this Aragorn's house. "Not thou at least? It needs more to make a king than a piece of elvish glass, or a rabble such as this. Why, any brigand of the hills can show as good a following."

Aragorn did not respond, but glared at the emissary with hatred. The Mouth of Sauron quailed and stepped back, crying "I am a herald and ambassador and may not be assailed!"

"Where such laws hold, it is also the custom for ambassadors to use less insolence," Gandalf said. Morrick was annoyed at the Wizard – he spoke as though all of Mordor was lawless. "But no one has threatened you," Gandalf continued. "You have naught to fear from us, until your errand is done. But unless your master has come to new wisdom, then all His servants will be in great peril."

All around Morrick, the orcs who could understand the Common Tongue laughed. Morrick laughed with them, at the empty words. Gandalf was the one in peril here, not them.

"So," the Mouth of Sauron said suddenly, and the orcs fell silent, "Then thou art the spokesman, old greybeard? Have we not heard of thee at whiles, and of thy wanderings, ever hatching plots and mischief at a safe distance? But this time thou hast stuck out thy nose too far, master Gandalf; and thou shalt see what comes to him who sets his foolish webs before the feet of Sauron the Great. I have tokens that I was bidden to show thee – to _thee_ in especial, if thou shoulst dare to come.

He motioned, and an orc rode from the Gate, out up to him on a black warg. He handed something that Morrick couldn't clearly see to the ambassador. From the bundle the Mouth of Sauron drew a sword, which he held high above him. Then he lifted a strange silver garment, and last a kingly-looking coat of mail. What they were Morrick had no idea, though the Enemy seemed to recognise them.

From behind the Wizard, what seemed a child sprang forward with a cry that sounded like "_Frodo!_"

"Silence!" Gandalf yelled, but the damage was done. Sauron had items of value. Clearly, He had taken prisoner some king of Gondor, and wanted to dismay his foes with the news.

The Mouth of Sauron laughed victoriously. "So you have yet another of these imps with you? What use you find in them I cannot guess – but to send them as spies into Mordor is beyond even your accustomed folly. Still, I thank him, for it is plain that this brat has at least seen these tokens before, and it would be in vain for you to deny them now."

Morrick was surprised – he had not heard of any spies in Mordor.

"Spies?" he asked the orc beside him.

"They found one in Erranór just recently, who tried to enter through Torech Ungol. He was stunned by Her Ladyship, and carried into the tower.

"What did they do with him?" Morrick asked. The orc lowered his voice.

"Last I heard he escaped. There was a civil war there just days ago, and the prisoner slipped out in the midst of it. But the Enemy does not know that."

The negotiators began speaking again, and Morrick shifted his attention to them, thinking of Sauron's wisdom and cleverness. Clearly the goal was to demoralise Gondor, not to carry out any threat.

Gandalf, who had thought long, spoke. "I do not wish to deny them. Indeed, I know them all, and all their history, and despite your scorn, foul Mouth of Sauron, you cannot say as much. But why do you bring them here?"

The Mouth of Sauron laughed. "Dwarf-coat, elf-cloak, blade of the downfallen West, and spy from the little rat-land of the Shire; nay, do not start! We know it well, here are the marks of a conspiracy. Now, maybe he that bore these things was a creature that you would grieve to lose, and maybe otherwise: one dear to you, perhaps? If so, take swift counsel with what little wit is left to you. For Sauron does not love spies, and what his fate shall be depends now on your choice."

They did not answer, clearly frozen in horror. Morrick smiled; the ploy was working. The Mouth of Sauron laughed another time, clearly aware that he had scored.

"Good, good," he cried, clapping his hands. "He was dear to you, I see. Or else his errand was one that you did not wish to fail. It has. And now he shall endure the slow agony of many long years, as long and slow as our arts in the Great Tower can contrive, and never be released, unless maybe when he is _changed_, and broken, so that he may come back to thou, cursing thou as the cause of his suffering, and thou wilt see what hou hast done."

He paused, and even from his distance Morrick could see the enemies' pallid faces. "This shall surely be unless you accept my Lord's terms."

Morrick nodded in approval, seeing the sense in the action. Offer unreasonable terms, and make them refuse. Make them believe they have condemned their friend to long years of Hell in Barad-dûr. Allow the guilt and shame to destroy them, and make them unable to fight back, knowing that they deserve death for what they had done. It would save the lives of thousands of orcs. And those were the lives that really mattered.

"Name the terms," said Gandalf in a surprisingly steady voice.

"These are the terms. The rabble of Gondor and its deluded allies shall withdraw at once beyond the Anduin, first taking oaths never again to assail Sauron the Great in arms, openly or in secret. All lands east of the Anduin shall be Sauron's for ever, solely. West of the Anduin, as far as the Misty Mountains, and the Gap of Rohan, shall be tributary to Mordor, and Men there shall bear no weapons, but shall have leave to govern their own affairs. But they shall help to rebuild Isengard, which they have wantonly destroyed, and that shall be Sauron's, and there His lieutenant shall dwell – not Saruman, but one more worthy of His trust."

"This is much to demand for the delivery of one servant: that your master should receive in exchange what he must else fight many a war to gain! Or has the field of Gondor destroyed His hope in war, so that He falls to haggling? And if we indeed rated this prisoner so highly, what surety have we that Sauron, the Base Master of Treachery, will keep His word? Where is this prisoner? Let him be brought forth and yielded to us, and then we will consider these demands."

For a moment the Mouth of Sauron seemed stumped, but he quickly recovered. Morrick prayed that Gandalf had not noticed the moment's hesitation, perhaps enough to expose their ruse.

"Do not bandy words in thy insolence with the Mouth of Sauron," he laughed. "Surety thou craveth? Sauron gives none. If thou dost sue Him for His clemency, then thou ought first to do His bidding. These are His terms. Take them, or leave them."

There was a long pause, where it seemed to Morrick that the two strove. At last, Gandalf backed down. "These we will take," he said heavily.

Morrick was shocked. He had never expected Gondor to actually accept. Nor, it seemed, had anyone else. A hurried muttering broke out all across the Morannon.

However, it seemed that they had misinterpreted the wizard's words. "_These _we will take—" he repeated, letting his cloak fall, and from his robes shone a blinding light. Squinting, Morrick saw the Mouth of Sauron pull away from him. Gandalf reached forward, snatching the bundle of items from the lieutenant.

"—in memory of our friend! But as for your terms, we reject them utterly. Get you gone, for your embassy is over and Death is near to you. We did not come here to waste words in treating with Sauron, faithless and accursed, still less with one of His slaves. Begone!"

Morrick was annoyed, as it was clear that Gandalf had seen through their trap. However, Sauron chose that time to attack. Doubtless He knew that the lesser Men would have fallen for his deceit, and that their spirits would be low, as they believed that they had just seen their leader sentence their friend to a horrible death.

The sentries beat their drums, and the orcs poured forth. The Gate was opened to its widest, and through it rows of a hundred orcs could march abreast. Morrick marched with them, marvelling at the collaboration of Sauron's army. He had complete control of it, and the soldiers were entirely obedient. This made them more powerful, as they were a team. Sauron's army was not made of individuals, rather, they worked like one hundred thousand muscles of the same body, all ruled by one Brain.

They marched onward, and the Men were easily dispatched at first, hopeless and confused. But as the battle wore on, they found new strength. Maybe it was just a last determination – they had accepted death, and fought with a hopeless fury, all the more potent, as they had already accepted the inevitability of their demise, and merely wanted to take as many orcs as possible with them. Whatever it was, many orcs fell – many lives ended. This was not at all what Sauron had intended, nor expected.

They drew nearer to Morrick, and he prepared himself to fight. Relentlessly the opposition advanced. They were not fighting for Gondor, but against Mordor, and their unquenchable hatred burned through the ranks of Sauron's ill-trained orc. The Men had nothing to lose.

Overhead, eagles and Nazgûl swooped across the skies. Below, the Men advanced relentlessly, into the heart of Sauron's army, to a position from which they could not escape. They knew death when they saw it. And they were prepared to die, and to bring part of Mordor with them, too.

Morrick unsheathed his sword partway. He sighed as he eyed the diminishing force of Men, fighting ever more ferociously, coming toward him. But then he glanced back over his shoulder, toward the mighty force behind him, and beyond. Just over the mountain was the great Tower, Barad-dûr. The living stronghold of Sauron.

Morrick could feel His presence. He knew that Sauron was behind him – behind him and his comrades. He, Morrick, was merely a finger on Sauron's mighty Hand.

Perhaps he, Morrick, was mortal. But Sauron was invincible. There was nothing to fear.

Morrick turned to face the tide.


	49. Chapter 49

**XLIX**

**Morrick**

Morrick was running.

The enemy army advanced, but Morrick did not heed them. He was fleeing, back to his home, fleeing alongside the innumerable others.

He passed the Gate, into Mordor, into safety.

No. There was no Mordor. Somehow, inexplicably, Sauron had fallen. Mordor was no more.

There was nothing.


	50. Chapter 50

**Book the Third**

**After the End**

**-**

**I**

**Sheglock**

It was dawn, and as the sun crept slowly over the horizon, the entire sky glowed with a fiery orange. Slowly the luminous orb drifted higher into the sky, and the shadows of night receded. Light once again illuminated the desolate plains of Gorgoroth. Above the plains was a dazzling display of colour, as the clouds shifted from subtle hues of pink and orange to calm, tranquil blue. Sheglock paused for a minute, his attention briefly diverted by the fantastic display.

"Another dawn," he said, sighing, as he stared toward the east. He looked to his left, but no one stood there. He was alone.

Sheglock sighed, the warmth of the new sun doing little to energise his cooling heart. He recalled how he used to occasionally travel down to town with Ulûrk, the very road on which he now stood. Despite his friend's haste to get to the market, they would always pause to see the sunrise. But Ulûrk was gone now. He had gone off to war, and never returned.

So much of his life had changed since those days. He turned westward, looking off toward the great tower of Barad-dûr. Cold and empty it seemed now, the very life force drained from it completely. Sauron was gone, gone like Ulûrk. his empire had crumbled, and now naught was left but the sun, which rose and set through eternity, in an unbroken cycle that would outlast the rise and fall of peoples, empires, and all of Middle Earth.

Sheglock remembered very well the day when he had felt, suddenly, the might of Sauron crumble. It had been not long after Firri and Iarék had returned to Garkhôn. They were *** outside, talking about Morrick, and the war, and hoping that it would end soon, so that their lives could return to normal. Then it had happened.

Flames had leapt from Orodruin, and the sky had turned red, a red of unnatural fire like the dawning of the apocalypse. Sheglock had even fancied that he heard a loud wail arise from Barad-dûr, as though the dark stone itself knew and lamented its master's passing. At once Sheglock had known what had happened, though how it had come to pass, he had no idea. Sauron had gone.

Then, looking out to the west, it had felt like the dawn of a new era, of his life, of the world. The dawn of the fourth age of Middle Earth.

He heard footsteps behind, and turned to see Iarék ambling toward him, carefree and nonchalant.

"What?" Sheglock asked, somewhat suspiciously.

"Oh, nothing, really," Iarék replied, smiling. "You just looked lonely."

"I used to go here with Ulûrk, all the time," Sheglock answered.

"Pity I never knew him. Nevertheless I know in my heart that he was a good orc."

"He was," Sheglock said, fond memories of his friend surfacing from the depths of his memory. "He was proud, and acted real tough and cold, but only to protect his heart, which was so gentle, and caring. I think he would've made a great father…"

"We should hold a proper funeral for him," Iarék suggested. "I will compose some verses, and we can sing to his memory."

"That's a beautiful idea!" Sheglock cried. "But, please, let me aid you in making the song. I'll tell you all about him – his valiant deeds, and his mild nature, so that you know what to sing about."

Iarék smiled sympathetically. "I had not planned to do it alone."

They returned to their house, where Firri was also living, as a group of homeless orcs had forcefully taken her own house, and several others in her neighbourhood, for their own. Excitedly, Sheglock told her of the plan.

"…to honour his memory," he finished. Firri was less excited. Sheglock supposed it was because she had never known Ulûrk.

But there was another reason for Firri's depression, which she explained quite bluntly. "We ought to make it a double funeral. Honouring Morrick too."

"Morrick's not—" Sheglock cried in surprise. He stopped, cut short by the look on Firri's face.

"He couldn't have survived that war," she said matter-of-factly, tears welling up in her eyes even though her voice betrayed no sadness.

Sheglock slowly nodded. He had known, ever since he had seen the red dawn in the northwest. But bhe had not admitted it to himself. He had tried to retain hope, to avoid grief, and to pretend that everything was going to be okay. "We'll write some verses for him, too," Sheglock choked.

"Don't," she said dully. "He never liked poetry. Nor do I."

"We are obligated to do _something_!" Iarék objected.

"A speech. I'll write it. After all, I was his fiancée."

_I was his brother,_ Sheglock thought, but refrained from arguing. Firri seemed so weak, so vulnerable, that he couldn't bring himself to challenge her.

He retreated to his own room, and here he could hold it off no longer. Unable to pretend any more, unable to smile and look the other way, he was forced to see it, to envision it himself. A wave of grief hit him, and swept over him, as, for the first time since Sauron's fall, he contemplated his brother's fate.

Now it was clear what had happened. He saw it as though it played out before his eyes – as though he were poised on the black gate itself. He saw his brother, amongst the multitude of orcs, standing, resolute, facing the enemy. Then Sauron's fall, and Morrick casting himself to the ground, hopeless. The enemy breaking through the ranks of orcs, hewing them down heartlessly. The knife coming down onto Morrick's neck…

His brother was dead. And with that acceptance, Sheglock felt a hole open in his heart, fresher, wider and more potent than that of Ulûrk. A part of him had died, there on the fields of the Dagorlad, with his brother.

He had never really known just how much he had been dependant on his brother. The two of them had lived together nearly all of Sheglock's life. He had taken Morrick for granted. Only now, when it was gone, could he realise how profound that presence had been.

He struggled to remember the last time he had seen Morrick, eager for some memory, some reminder of that love and connexion he had lost. Slowly and arduously the scene resurrected itself in his mind.

Morrick had just accused him of Ulûrk's death, and Sheglock had been furious. He had stridden forward and smacked his brother hard in the face. Morrick had flinched and recoiled in genuine pain.

"_I'm leaving!_" Sheglock had roared. "_I never should've come here! I'm going home, and staying there!_"

Horror numbed Sheglock's senses, and his exercise betrayed him, dredging up not memories of love and affection, but those of discord and quarrel. The last time he had seen Morrick, he had been screaming at him. He even vaguely remembered wishing for his brother's death.

Sheglock couldn't believe it. He hated himself, hated his vacillating temper. How could he have been so antagonistic? How could he not have known that it would be the last time he would ever see Morrick?

_Of course you couldn't have known,_ the reasonable portion of Sheglock's brain told him. But that didn't change the facts. He had treated his brother like shit, and now his brother was dead. Sheglock couldn't help feeling responsible. In a way, he knew he was.

"You okay?"

Sheglock looked up. Iarék was standing at the doorway, a look of deep concern on his face. He nodded.

Iarék came over and sat himself on the bed beside Sheglock. "You'll get through it," he said. "Death is hard. Believe me, I know too well. But in the end it strengthens us. And you don't think that the dead go away, do you?"

"I wouldn't know," Sheglock replied uncomfortably.

"They move on. It is as natural as the rising and setting of the sun. Death is a sunset, but there is a sunrise still for the dead. They go on to the next day."

"The sun always rises," Sheglock said. "But the dead never do."

"Not in this life, maybe. But there is another. Believe me, friend, in time, you will see him again."

"I'd like to believe you."

"Faith never hurts. Nor does hope – hope for your ideals, and your beliefs."

"He didn't believe in life after death."

Iarék sighed. "Nor did he believe that Sauron could be destroyed. And here we are, after he has fallen. Your brother was not omnipotent. Faith is not a matter of logic. Everyone moves on to the afterlife, even those who disdain such things on earth. The sun still rises, even if you believe that it will not. The day that Sauron fell, I am, sure, many an orc believed that the world was ending. But it endured, and the next day, dawn came as it always does, and again the day after that."

Sheglock let out a long, slow sigh. "Thank you," he said at length. "You have lightened my heart."

"Death is inevitable," Iarék said. "We are not elves. And one day, you and I too shall die, and pass on to the dawn of the next life."

Sheglock inclined his head in agreement, getting up off the bed. "I want to go outside."

"No one is stopping you."

Sheglock walked out the back door of his room, to the small patio of his and Morrick's house. He remembered fondly the many times he and his brother had debated here over a cup of tea. He closed his eyes, finally feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin.

After a moment's pause, Iarék followed him outside. "It's nice out, isn't it? Spring is my favourite season."

"Let's get prepared for Ulûrk's funeral," Sheglock suggested.

Iarék nodded. "And do not forget Morrick's."

"No. Firri can do Morrick's. As for me, your words were enough."


	51. Chapter 51

**II**

**Iarék**

Iarék felt confident that Sheglock would endure, be strengthened by his loss, and come out of it okay. He knew from experience that some things could only be learned through loss. The merit of some things was not recognisable until it was gone.

As he returned to the house to fetch his friend the paper, pen, and ink that he had requested, Iarék remembered how poorly he had taken his first experience with death. He had only been eight when his mother had been brutally slaughtered by a band of criminals, slashed and hacked away with knives – her body disfigured and scored with a hundred bloody slashes. Her killers, natural Nurnian terrorists, had dropped her mutilated body off as Iarék's front door, along with a threatening note, warning his father to pay, or end up like her.

Unfortunately, it had been Iarék who had first opened the door that day, and he had beheld such a sight that, he strongly believed, no eight-year old should ever see. At first was frightened merely by all the gore, because he could not see his mother in the bloody and mangled mess before him. But he knew in his heart who she was – knew with the innate knowledge that all children have, that ability to always find their mother, and that connexion that had been, on that day, totally lost. With a start, he had witnessed the bloody mess transform into his mother, and he was frightened, seeing that she was hurt. Scared, he had knelt down before her, crying for her to respond to him. Whenever something bad had happened, his mother had always been there for him. But that time had been different – for the first time since he could remember, his mother had not responded to him – had not even acknowledged him, but had just lain there, immobile as the stones that held up their house.

That was how his father had found him, and Iarék remembered well his horror. That had been the worst part for the young Iarék – seeing his father break down. Seeing Daddy's vulnerability. For the first time, he realised that his parents might not always be with him. They would pass on through life like any other orc, no more special nor exempt from the stream of age and time than the neighbours half a mile down the road.

After his mother's funeral he had begun to understand the full meaning of death, as a state separate from life, and as one that was eternal. He began to grasp the concept of forever, as he realised that death was a one way road, like falling from a high cliff, or into deep well, and that there was no way to climb back up into the land of the living. Upon this recognition, and conceptualisation of forevermore, Iarék had lost the reason in his life, and forgotten the joys of living. He had refused to go to school, even though he had been far from completing his education. Slowly he had withdrawn from life, preferring to live as a dead orc, to again feel connected with his mother. Eventually he had begun to refuse everything, to such an extreme that hi father, always a passive, caring, and gentle man, had sternly pulled him aside, and told him of the afterlife.

"She's not gone," he had said. "Make her proud of you, son! Mommy wouldn't want you to mope like this. She loved you, and wants you to live life, even now, for her sake. Go out and run through the fertile woods, skip alongside the murmuring creeks, fly with your friends off into the realm of mystery and adventure while your youth lasts! Find joy with what you have, and do not hurry yourself to grow old too quickly. Do not rush yourself to part from this world, while you still belong in it, and we still have each other!"

These words had made a profound impact on Iarék, and he had become determined to discover a purpose – a meaning – behind life, so that he might live, for the sake of his mother. At the age of ten, he had taken to art, realising that it was a hole in their culture – one that needed to be filled, just as he also hoped that it could patch the hole in his chest, the hole his mother had gouged out upon her departure. He found his calling as an artist, and his father encouraged him in the trade, even offering to move to Erranór to send him to a speciality school near Cirith Ungol, where he could advance his trade, and ultimately find employment under Sauron. But Iarék had refused, preferring to stay among the green, fertile land that he called home – the same land whose woodland trails he had walked, as a young child, with his mother. He felt comfortable there, out in the open, surrounded only by the vast farmland worked by Sauron's many slaves – Man and orc alike.

And as he travelled outward – as he widened his knowledge and opened his mind to new perspectives, he came to wondering what made orcs so different than Men. In the far South that difference was not self-evident. Where Iarék had lived the first twenty years of his life, and had grown up and been moulded, he had been alone, and solitude, from class, and from judgement, had not cultured a taste for exclusion within him. He realised that the differences between races were artificial, and he decided that, in their hearts, the two were very much alike. Both had access to the higher. He further refined his theory, and in a bout of self-deprecating disdain, he concluded that only difference was, for the majority of their lives, orcs ignored the spiritual in favour of the earthly, whereas Men, for the most part, exalted it. Soon Iarék determined that orcs were by no means superior to Men, and if anything, the contrary.

When his father had passed away, Iarék had grown restless in his homeland, unable to hold the horror and memory at bay. And as the trauma of his past chased him, he fled, first to Erranór, where he had enrolled in the school his father had encouraged him to attend, and learned the skill of making the type of art that Sauron lauded. It had been then that he had sculpted the gargoyle that now guarded the entrance to Minas Morgul. He had lived for three years in the Dead City, and gradually he found that the unearthly glow sank into his mind and dampened his inspiration, so that all he could see when he dreamt at day were hideous and ghastly forms of things long since dead.. He found that the haunting in his new home was more potent than the whispers of the empty meads, and so he fled again, finally ending up in Barad-dûr. He was certain that there, in the great tower itself, he would at last be able to escape the memories and ghosts of his past, and again find inspiration through living art.

Sure enough, he had found work under Sauron, and the art he made in the great city was more wholesome than that which he had crafted in Minas Morgul. Though Iarék was bothered still, by Sauron's very incomplete appreciation of art. he had cared only for its practical purpose, as a tool of war, whereas Iarék had desired to make art for beauty's sake. Art that served no purpose for the flesh, but could wholly cure the soul, lift it up, and carry it into far-off worlds accessible only to the imagination…

"What are you doing?"

With a start, Iarék was pulled out of his reverie. Firri was laying on the couch, staring absentmindedly in his direction. Iarék felt disoriented, unable to remember what he was supposed to be doing. He stammered a second, as his mind slowly shifted from the past to the present. Gradually he remembered that he gad offered to fetch Sheglock some writing supplies. He realised that it was futile – he had no idea where they were even stored.

"Do you know where Sheglock stores pens and ink?" he asked Firri at length.

"I don't," she said monotonically, after an extended pause. "Why don't you ask him?"

"You okay?" Iarék asked tentatively.

She half-shrugged. "No."

"Anything I can do?"

Another half-shrug. "No."

Iarék sighed, unsure what would help her the most, and went back outside. He knew that some issues were personal, and that intervention only exacerbated them.

Sheglock was waiting by the table. "What took so long?" he asked. "Did you stop to use the outhouse?"

"I was sidetracked."

"By whom?"

Iarék smiled. "By myself. I have a habit of doing so."

"Where are the pens?" Sheglock asked, staring at Iarék's empty hands. "At least, I assumed you were going to get some."

"I realised that I do not know where they are stored."

Sheglock laughed. "Come with me, then, and I'll show you. Then I think we should head into town."

"I recall you hated the town," Iarék said in surprise. "Or so, you always told me."

"I do. But Ulûrk loved it. Garkhôn's plaza was his sanctuary."

Iarék nodded in approval – it seemed a fitting honour to the deceased, and a devout sacrifice on Sheglock's part. He followed Sheglock inside, where his friend showed him the location of the necessary supplies. Then the two of them headed out into the warm spring day.

They rode, Sheglock lending Iarék one of Gortog's wargs, which he had not yet returned. "I plan to give them back soon, maybe even today. Gortog closed the shop, anyway, so there might not be room for them."

"It's the thought that matters," Iarék reminded him, eager to dispel any further guilt, lest it fuse with the unfounded responsibility Iarék suspected Sheglock was feeling over Ulûrk's death, and overwhelm him.

They rode slowly, enjoying the soft breeze, and each other's company. Iarék smiled, seeing his friend transform before his eyes. Truly, being outdoors under the sun was healing him.

At length they came to the main road, where there was a commotion, and the multitudes of running and yelling orcs jostled Sheglock from his recuperation. "What d'ya mean?" one orc cried loudly, just to Iarék' right.

"I'm chargin'. This 'ere road's mine! And if ya wanna use it, ya gotta pay!"

Iarék and Sheglock rode closer, and saw that a muscular orc holding a club had planted himself smack in the middle of the road, and had even constructed a toll booth overnight.

Slowly Iarék edged forward, pulling a silver coin from his pocket. "What's the price?" he asked timidly, eager to get Sheglock through as soon as possible, and with as little fuss as he could manage.

"Whatever I feel like," roared the orc. "I'm Bokluk, and what I say, goes."

"I'm not payin'," one of the orcs near the front muttered, and began to walk through. Immediately, Bokluk jumped on him, bringing the club down hard on his head. He was knocked unconscious instantly, and blood showed on his scalp. Bokluk grunted unconcernedly, and Iarék was horrified at the degree of bestiality before him.

There are more good orcs than bad, he reminded himself, though not as convincingly as he would have liked.

"Any questions?" Bokluk roared.

The eight or so orcs in front of him, Iarék included, shook their heads. Bokluk nodded in apparent satisfaction. "Good. So 'oo 'ere wants ta use Bokluk's Pass?"

"Is this enough?" Iarék asked, holding up the coin. Bokluk laughed, grabbed it, and flung it on the ground, causing Iarék to pull his warg back abruptly in fright.

"Yer so naïve. Have ya been ta the market recently? I'm gonna bet ya ain't, else ya'd know that those coins ain't worth shit 'erebouts. Ya gotta give me grub, then ya getta pass!"

Iarék sighed. It made no sense to him. At Barad-dûr, money had always been accepted. They hadn't brought any food.

"Let's go," Sheglock muttered. "There are other ways into town. Longer, but hopefully they haven't been claimed yet."

Iarék followed his friend along the perimeter of the town, saying little. He was dumbstruck with confusion. Why was this happening? What part of the innate nature of orcs could have predicted this inhumane and brutish behaviour. Why would anyone want to claim a _road_? And why did the people not do something about it – rise up against the injustice, and unite towards harmony as he had believed they would.

Eventually they made it into town, and Sheglock dismounted near a well that was in the centre of the plaza.

"Do you reckon that someone will claim that?" Iarék asked nervously, eyeing pointing the well. But Sheglock was not listening.

"Where is everybody?" he asked in a hollow voice, as though in shock. Iarék looked around the near-empty square.

"Home, maybe."

"You don't understand!" Sheglock cried, his voice rising. "It's _never_ this empty!"

One of the few orcs who had been mulling around overheard them, and came over. "It's gotten emptier and emptier," she said. "Less people ta sell stuff."

"What do you mean?"

"Food's scarce. It's going ta get really hard ta find any soon. Me and my husband are considering moving, but we can't, really. The kids're three and five, and it's too hard ta move them…"

"I'm sorry," Sheglock said. Iarék hung his head, staring down at the dirty, unswept cobblestones. His world was not panning out as he had hoped or believed it would, and he felt himself losing faith in orckind. He struggled to hold onto it, but it escaped him like water seeping through soil.

"How can we help?" Sheglock asked. She looked disdainfully at him.

"You offering ta feed my family?" He did not reply. "Didn't think so. So no, there really isn't."

She ambled off, and Sheglock wandered despondently over to a bench by the edge of the tiled square. Iarék followed at a distance. He wanted to cheer his friend up, but his own gloom prevented him.

"I didn't even know this was here," Sheglock remarked absently. "Usually it's so crowded that you can't see the edge of the square. And booths line it all the time. They're mostly gone now – see, there're two across from us. I wonder where the rest went." He trailed off, leaving the two companions in a brooding silence.

"They sold them, I guess," Iarék said at length.

"Maybe… Anyway, I'm not sure I can write about Ulûrk here. It's so unlike him. Where's the noise? Where's the Ulûrkness?"

_The life of Garkhôn's square was Ulûrk's breath  
And with him it goes on, even through death._

Iarék stopped reciting. "I'm not sure. Made it up on the spot. But it could be a start."

"Perhaps it could," Sheglock agreed. They paused for a long time again, while the clouds drifted overhead, and the ground flashed from light to darkness. Gradually the last orcs gave up on the deserted marketplace, leaving Sheglock and Iarék alone. The sun inched across the sky, and the shadows lengthened. Sheglock hung his head and did not move, and Iarék laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. A light breeze stirred a flag of the red eye that stood on the opposite corner of the plaza.

Suddenly Sheglock spoke up, is head still hung over his knees.

_Merchants everywhere:__  
"Where is he?" they cried.  
__How is it Ulûrk  
Could ever have died?_

Sheglock stopped as abruptly as he had begun, apparently dissatisfied. "This is getting too morbid," he muttered softly, a single tear welling in the eye that Iarék could see. "Let's stop putting death into it. I want to sing of his life."

"I'd love to," Iarék replied with a smile, lifting his head gently and smiling at him. "Eulogies need not be gloomy."

"I'd prefer to remember the Ulûrk that used to roam this plaza."

"All you have to do is tell me about him," Iarék said, picking up the pen, and a piece of paper. Sheglock smiled, stared across the barren square, then into Iarék's eyes, and at last began to speak.


	52. Chapter 52

**III**

**Sheglock**

Sheglock woke early, just at the break of day. The house was silent. He got up and crept outside, careful not to wake Firri, who was still lying on the couch in the living room, fast asleep.

He went into the entry room, and sat down on the armchair positioned in the room's corner. He pulled out the paper that he had brought with him, and read it over by the light of the rising sun. It was the poem in praise of Ulûrk's life. Sheglock thought it was pretty good. There was no mention of death, or at least not directly.

He put the paper down, and stared out of the window, watching the luminous clouds. This afternoon they would hold Ulûrk's funeral. Sheglock was suddenly afraid, realising that it would make his friend's death absolute. Sheglock had always retained some hope that his friend had survived. That hope had been necessary for him. It had allowed him to go on without Ulûrk. This afternoon would finally dampen that fading hope, and make Ulûrk's death definite and irrevocable.

Sheglock wandered into the kitchen to prepare breakfast, mostly to give himself something to do, other than waiting. He opened the pantry, frowning at their dwindling supply of meat. The larder was stocked with only the food that had survived since their trip to Dorezátz, and that had not been a lot. There was some salted meat: a lot of bacon and jerky. There was also some stale bread. Since his return home, Sheglock had not visited the market to buy food.

Because he had time, and because the market seemed more bearable now that it was emptier, Sheglock decided to go out and restock. He left a quick note on the kitchen table: "Gone to market for food."

As he headed out to the stables to get Merân, he remembered that he still had not returned Gortog's wargs. He ran back in, added "& return the wargs" to the note, and ran back out to get them. He also grabbed some food, not for himself, but for the tollbooth at Bokluk's Pass.

Sheglock rode quickly toward the market, coming quickly to the roadblock.

"Oy!" Bokluk cried. "Ya gonna pay?"

"Here," Sheglock offered, holding up the strip of bacon. Bokluk eyed it.

"Got any more?"

"No."

Bokluk growled, taking the meat. "That's enough fer two o' ya. Ya and the warg yer ridin' on. But ya ain't paid fer the others."

"We have to pay for the wargs?" Sheglock asked in shock.

"That's right."

Sheglock sighed, irritated. He tethered the two other wargs to a rock a few yards off the side of the road. Then, as Bokluk laughed, he rode in toward the plaza.

There were only a few merchants selling food, and they were not shouting out their wares as they once had. In fact, Sheglock had to ask around before any of them admitted that they might sell food. "But ya got to offer a real good price for it, ya hear?" the first of these, who seemed more of a housewife than an experienced bargainer, warned Sheglock.

"What do you want?"

"What do ya got?" she asked.

Sheglock thought about it for a while, going through his mental inventory in search of useless things. There was a pile of brick in the cellar, saved for the remodel that he and Morrick had planned. That would not be happening now, Sheglock realised despondently. He could sell those, though, to him, it felt uncomfortably like he was selling his faith in his brother.

"I'll give you bricks," he offered, after too long a pause for deliberation.

The merchant frowned, having lost interest. "No…"

To his surprise, Sheglock was amused. He smiled. He knew what to do. He'd seen Ulûrk do it a million times before. In memory of his late friend, he turned his back on her.

"Okay. I'll find someone else then."

She laughed. "Go ahead and try."

Defeated, Sheglock walked away. Why hadn't it worked? Ulûrk had managed to pull it off countless times before! Why didn't the simple trick work for him? He realised that he just wasn't like Ulûrk. No one could live up to Ulûrk's valiant memory.

He wandered around a little, looking for another merchant willing to sell food. Eventually he found one, though it was not easy, and his seller was not in the min plaza, nor was he advertising his wares.

"You'll sell meat?"

He was a burly orc of about seventy. "Yeah," he grunted.

"What kind?"

He thought about it. "I got Man, and crow. Depends what ya offer."

Sheglock made the same offer as before. "I have a pile of bricks at my house. You can build with them, or sell them yourself."

"Crow," he said.

Sheglock sighed. At least he was taking the bricks.

"How much?"

"Let's make it five birds fer five hundred bricks. Which comes ta…" he started counting on his fingers.

"Deal," Sheglock said. He wondered how crow tasted.

"Where d'ya live?" the merchant asked.

"North Garkhôn Road Twenty-one." Sheglock told him.

"Good. It's on my way home. I'm on twenty-eighth street. I'll stop by this afternoon.

"Er…" Sheglock began uncomfortably. "Why don't you pick them up to-morrow. We're kind of having a funeral in the afternoon…"

"Fine," he muttered, looking put out. "You'll get the meat when I arrive."

"All right," Sheglock said. He thanked him, and rode off.

Pleased with his mercantile prowess, Sheglock rode back toward his house. When he came to Bokluk's Pass, however, he suddenly remembered that he was returning the borrowed wargs to Gortog. When he went to where he had tethered them, he found them gone, and his joy flickered away like a tongue of flame. The leads were nowhere to be seen, so he assumed that the wargs had somehow escaped. He must've not tied them properly.

"Did you see my wargs run off?" he asked Bokluk. Bokluk laughed raucously.

"Yer wargs didn't run off," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"They were stolen," Bokluk replied tonelessly.

Sheglock was instantly suspicious. "Did you take them?"

"Nah, but I saw the guy 'oo did."

"Who?" Sheglock demanded.

"Big fella. Nigh on six fet 'igh. Big bulgin' muscles, and a long sword hangin' by 'is waist. Looked ta be fifty or so. 'E 'ad short, brown 'air."

"Why didn't you do something?" Sheglock cried in frustration. Bokluk shrugged.

"Ain't my problem. If ya think I'm gonna stand up ta Mr. Muscles fer yer sake, ya don't know me well. Bokluk serves none but 'isself."

Sheglock sighed. It seemed that no one cared for one another anymore. Garkhôn had become a very self-centred town.

He decided to ride to Gortog's anyway, to apologise for losing the wargs. He groaned as he contemplated what his boss would do with him. Hopefully he wouldn't be fired, as he was the only one in the house who could really work. His roommates were no help. Firri lay around all day doing nothing, and Iarék made nothing that would sell. It wasn't that Sheglock disliked Iarék's creations – he enjoyed them very much. It was just that he couldn't eat them.

So he rode, empty-handed, to his employer's in-town shop, to request reemployment. He really hoped that Gortog would take him back, even though he had been gone for almost two months. But Sheglock was not too worried – he knew his boss, and Gortog was a very decent orc.

He sighed as he approached the unfamiliar building. Light shone from the window, and orcs were moving around inside. Sheglock knocked on the door.

"Gortog's Wargs, welcome." It was Gortog himself who opened the door.

"Remember me?" Sheglock asked with a smile.

"How could we ferget ya, Sheglock. Come in."

Still smiling, Sheglock followed him inside. Uríse and Jelzan were playing cards at a table in the corner of the room. Terreu was feeding the wargs. And an orc who looked vaguely familiar, but whose name Sheglock didn't know, was checking off names on a piece of paper.

"Hey, Sheglock!" Terreu cried, looking up from her work.

"Hi!" he called.

Jelzan looked up. "Hey, pal! Up for a game of poker? We're playing with these useless things, so you don't have to worry about losing money." He held up a few of the silver coins that had once been Sauron's money.

"No thanks," Sheglock said, smiling.

"You wouldn't say no to a cup of ale?" Uríse asked in mock horror.

"That'd be nice. But first I need to talk with the boss."

"What?" Gortog asked.

"I need my job back."

Gortog looked uncomfortable, but he did not hesitate, eager to get the bad news out of the way. "Well, ya see, there ain't room. We've got enough employees – too much, I daresay, if they can waste time at cards! I mean, as this is the only shop now…"

Sheglock was crushed, and he didn't try to hide it. "I have three people I have to feed!" he pleaded.

Gortog sighed. "I already had ta lay off Reltath and Tergz. It's not an easy decision. But these ain't easy times."

The other orc came over to Gortog. "All o' the wargs accounted fer but five o' the six ya lent ta this guy, Morrick. I'm Breilg, by the way," he said to Sheglock. "Not sure if ya remember me."

Sheglock didn't reply, as he had stopped listening the moment his brother's name was mentioned. "I was going to return two of them," he said slowly, staring at the ground.

Gortog glared fiercely into the back of Sheglock's neck, so that he could feel it even without seeing it. "Why didn't ya?"

"They were stolen just an hour ago."

"Did you leave them unattended?" Gortog growled.

"Yes…"

"Then it's yer fault!"

"I had no idea that they would just get—"

"Garkhôn's a different town now'days," Gortog interposed. "'Er streets ain't safe any more. Ya gotta know better than ta leave two 'ealthy wargs unattended."

"They were right in front of Bokluk, who watched the thief take them!"

"Ya oughtta get some sense. Ya can't expect orcs like 'im ta aid ya unless it's in their interest ta do so."

Sheglock heaved a long sigh.

"What about the others?" Gortog asked.

"Burk and Largg, our companions in the journey to Dorezátz, each took one."

"Burk returned 'is. 'E's the only warg ta have made it back."

"And Morrick kept one, I think, at Barad-dûr."

"Is 'e gonna return soon?"

"No," Sheglock said slowly and sadly.

Terreu came over and eyed Sheglock with a look of pity and understanding. "Did he go off to war?" she asked softly.

Sheglock nodded. "I'm sorry to hear that," she said truthfully. "I also lost someone - my cousin Karkgor, with whom I was exceptionally close."

There was silence for a while, as they brooded over the sorrows of the past, until Gortog broke it, to focus on the present. "Well," he said, rubbing his chin as he always did when making a difficult decision, "I'm not gonna charge ya fer the wargs. Yer not the one who borrowed 'em, yer brother is. And I can't charge a dead orc fer nuthin'. So yer off the hook."

"Thank you," Sheglock said quite ungratefully, as he really would've preferred his job back. The blatant mention of Morrick as a dead orc didn't help, either.

"Ale's ready," Uríse called out. Sheglock ambled over to the table. Jelzan poured him a up of ale, and one for himself and his brother. Gortog, Terreu, and Breilg went back to work.

"I'm sorry to hear about your brother," Jelzan said slowly, taking a draught of ale. Uríse nodded.

"I dunno where I'd be without my bro. You're keeping together quite well."

"My friend Iarék convinced me that life goes on after death. He told me that Morrick is still watching us."

"I'm sure he is," Jelzan said. "But I can tell you've had quite a journey. Gor tog told us you had left for Alzág. Tell us about it."

So, casually sipping ale with his old friends, Sheglock recounted his journey. He sighed as he told the tale, realising just how long ago it felt. In reality, he had only been home for about a week. However, it seemed like the adventure had taken place in another lifetime, on another planet. So much had changed. Back then, they had been doing all their work in Sauron's name. Now he had vanished, and now there was no higher, greater power to rely on for justification. In light of the new paradigm, Sheglock wondered why they had once been so swayed by his name, which was naught more than a name now, a name devoid of all potency. Now there was nothing to command one's decisions but the eternal compass of the individual conscience.

In a lull in the conversation, Sheglock stared outside. The sun was already sinking toward the West. He jumped up in surprise.

"Son of a Dwarf!" he swore in frustration. "It's past noon!"

"You need to be somewhere?" Uríse asked. Sheglock nodded.

"My friends and I are holding a funeral. For Ulûrk – remember him?"

"Can't say I ever knew him," Jelzan replied. "But it's a large world, despite the saying to the contrary. I'm sorry to hear of his death."

"He was a warrior. A valiant soldier of Sauron."

"Well, then, perhaps it's fitting that he should go with his king."

"That's more like my brother," Sheglock laughed half-heartedly. "Ulûrk wasn't quite _that_ devoted."

"You gotta go," Uríse reminded him. Sheglock nodded.

"Yes – right. Thanks. I'll see you guys around, I suppose."

"See ya," they called as he walked out the door. The others all said their farewells, and Gortog again expressed his feelings that Sheglock couldn't return to work with them. Sheglock nodded, unwilling to speak further on the sore topic. With a wave, he walked out the door, got on Merân's back, and sped off toward his house.


	53. Chapter 53

**IV**

**Iarék**

Iarék got up and looked around the house, but Sheglock was nowhere to be seen. He was disappointed by his friend's absence – he had hoped to spend some time with Sheglock before the funeral. Iarék knew that Sheglock was prone to apathy and depression, and he wanted to be there, to cheer him and lift his heart, before the sorrow of mourning conquered it.

On a more practical note, he had hoped to go over the poem again, before reading it aloud. There was one line at the end that he did not feel was quite fitting. They had used a simple iambic pentameter for the rhythm, but there were a few places Iarék felt that it was off, and he did not want to do dishonour to Ulûrk's memory, especially because he had never known him in life. Iarék supposed it was only for the dead orc's sake that he even cared about the words of the poem so dearly. Save Firri, no living orc would be hearing the poem for the first time. And Firri, Iarék had gathered, hadn't ever known Ulûrk. The first funeral really was for Sheglock's sake, and that, Iarék finally realised, was the source of his perfectionism.

Morrick's funeral ceremony, which they planned to hold right after Ulûrk's, was different. Iarék had known Morrick, though not very well. Firri had planned on marrying him, and had been sincerely in love with him. Sheglock, of course, had been his brother. That funeral would be for everyone.

Iarék sighed as he dreaded the tears and sadness just around the corner. He knew that it would be rough, especially for those who were close to the dead. But he also knew that it would be cleansing, and that acceptance was a necessary step to healing. He knew that, ultimately, the funerals would purge Sheglock and Firri of any grief or blame that lurked in the darker chambers of their hearts.

Iarék was wandering without commanding his legs, and, by chance, they carried him to the kitchen, where he serendipitously found Sheglock's note. Somewhat relieved, now that he knew his friend was not shut up alone in his room, mourning, he made himself a quick breakfast, then headed back out to the living room, waiting for Sheglock to return.

Firri was lying on the couch, eyes closed. When he saw her, Iarék remembered that he had planned on asking her for the speech that she was writing for Morrick. But he didn't want to wake her up. He took a chair on the other side of the room, and stared out the large glass window, waiting to see Merân, and her rider, galloping up the dirt path.

"He kissed me, you know."

Iarék spun around, bewildered. The room looked the same as it had just before – the empty fireplace was still cluttered with ash, the two faded velvet armchairs were unchanged, the dusty carpet, was still there, and the couch on it, with Firri still sleeping atop. Had he been hearing things?

"What?" he asked aloud in confusion.

"He kissed me," Iarék heard again, though this time he saw Firri speaking. Her eyes were still closed, and she did not move a muscle.

"I was there," he reminded her, wondering why she was telling him this. He was deeply worried about her. All she had done since their return was fret about Morrick. Then, after the collapse of Sauron, she had sunk into a state of profound apathy. She rarely spoke, and only ate if food was brought to her. Over the past two days, she had not once gotten up off that couch. Now she was too lazy to even open her eyes.

"Of course…" Firri said slowly. "You were there."

Iarék said nothing, unsure how to comfort her, without inadvertently making it worse. After a while, she spoke again.

"I loved him."

"Of course you did!" Iarék exclaimed, trying to read her concerns. Did she doubt her own devotion to him, and blame herself for leaving him?

She sighed. "I loved him a lot."

"Yes. You two were deeply, truly, in love. You loved him, and he loved you."

"Not as much as I loved him."

Iarék was unnerved and worried. He had expected her to object to the first half of his declaration, not the second. Her voice had stayed even throughout the entire conversation, if it could even be called that. She had not once shown any sign of emotion. Now she had just stated, matter-of-factly, that Morrick hadn't requited all of her love. Iarék was, once again, utterly baffled.

"I'm sure he loved you just as much," he reassured her.

"If he did, he wouldn't've left," she explained straightforwardly.

"I'm sure he didn't want to leave you," Iarék said carefully. "And he didn't plan on dying. I know he would have wanted to return here, if he could."

"He loved Sauron more than me."

"He may have been loyal – but he loved you more!" Iarék cried. At least they had gotten to the bottom of this, and he now understood what was troubling Firri.

"At Barad-dûr, he had to choose. He had to choose between coming with me, or going with him. And he chose him."

"It was required," Iarék reminded her.

"You didn't go," she said simply. Iarék sighed heavily, reluctant to bring himself up in relation to Morrick, especially as his philosophy was the polar opposite of the late Morrick's.

"No, I didn't go," uarek said softly. "Because I'm a rebel. Because I don't believe in Sauron. But I don't think your fiancée went for his sake. Sauron's, that is. He went for your sake, for he felt that, under Sauron, the both of you would have had better lives."

"You disagree," Firri told him. Iarék didn't correct her. He didn't want to lie.

"I'm just telling you that Morrick acted in love of you, and not Sauron."

"That's what you think," she said. Iarék didn't respond, and she did not speak again.

Iarék stared absentmindedly out of the window, which looked toward the dirt path leading towards town. He couldn't see anyone on it, and wondered vaguely what Sheglock was doing. It was almost noon.

Then he let his thoughts wander freely, the way he knew was best for artistic inspiration. He thought about Sauron, and about his destruction. It been so totally unexpected, especially for Iarék, who had resigned himself to a whole life under Sauron's oppression. Now, suddenly, the orcs of Mordor were without a ruler, without anyone commanding them, and at last, nothing between themselves, and the freedom of their will.

Iarék knew that it would be better eventually. But they would first need to acclimate to their freedom. Sauron had not necessarily been a bad ruler, but he had been a dictator, and he had denied the common orc many freedoms. Iarék despised dictators – both the benevolent and the tyrant, because even just laws enforced morality, but did not cultivate it. Once the laws were gone, those orcs who had been forced to act morally rebelled, by claiming a road, or likewise. But Iarék believed that orckind was good at heart, inherently moral, and that the current chaos was just a phase out of which the fledgling free land would grow into a utopia.

_Time heals all,_ Iarék thought. They would just have to wait. Anarchy was better than oppression – once they grew accustomed to it. _Far better,_ he thought, _to struggle as a free orc, than to be a slave._

Looking out the window, Iarék was interrupted in his thoughts by the arrival of Sheglock. His friend was riding up quickly, creating a large cloud of dust on the dry road.

As Sheglock went to the stables with Merân, Iarék went over to the couch, to Firri.

"We're going to be holding the funerals," he said delicately.

"You do that," she said glumly, sounding thoroughly disinterested.

"Aren't you coming?"

"No."

"Do you have the speech for Morrick?"

"No."

Iarék's eyes watered, though she couldn't see, as hers were closed. He was sad because he saw that she was not yet ready for healing. He could not force her to accept anything – the healing had to come from within. "Well, we'll postpone Morrick's," he said disappointedly.

"You do that, then," she said. Feeling hopeless, Iarék gave up on her, and went to the door to greet Sheglock.


	54. Chapter 54

**V**

**Sheglock**

They quickly prepared the patio for their small service, and as they did so, Sheglock told Iarék of his experience in town. The artist muttered sympathetically.

"I can relate completely – such rejection is no more nor less than I receive when ever I dare make a proposal. In all this wide world, I have begun to feel that no one sees the grace and beauty of true art."

"We do," Sheglock reminded him.

Iarék sighed. "So we do, and I suppose such impelled us to partake in the exploit of poetry, for your late friend's sake. Was Ulûrk partial to art?"

"If he was, he would never have admitted it to anyone."

"Why not?"

"He liked to keep a tough demeanour, you know. I guess he wanted to fit in, and act like that typical orc you'd meet on the street. But he wasn't like the rest of them." Sheglock stopped speaking, and stared off into the distance, seeing his friend's face in the low lying clouds that hovered over the unseen jungles of Dorezátz to the east. Iarék smiled at him, and went off to prepare the table, and, in time, Sheglock got up and assisted him, strangely, now more willing to accept that Ulûrk had truly gone on.

They lit several candles and placed those on the small metal table. Sheglock scattered some of the old silver coins around the candles, to symbolise Ulûrk's zeal in the marketplace. "Though he bartered more than he used these," he told Iarék nostalgically.

Beneath the candlesticks Sheglock placed Ulûrk's note – that blissfully naïve promise, "Off to war — be right back" – and the last message Sheglock had received from his friend. With that note they put Morrick's letter to Ulûrk, written from the sickbed in Kâlask's house. It would serve both for Ulûrk's funeral, and for Morrick's.

"Are we ready?" Iarék asked. Sheglock nodded.

"You start," Iarék suggested, stepping back. At first Sheglock was unsure what to do. He began speaking, improvising as he went, and he found that, as he spoke, speaking became easier. He felt a weight beginning to lift off his chest, as though one of the fell beasts of the Nazgûl had been perched on him, and was just now taking off and flying away.

"We are here today to honour Ulûrk, a great orc… He always tried his hardest to do what was right. Even though he acted tough outwardly, his heart was pure… And inside he was caring, accepting, loving… He perished fighting valiantly as a soldier – and that's all he ever wanted to be doing – he had not foreseen death, but his dream had always been to be a soldier, and I'm sure he was happy, even when… My friend, we lament that you are no longer here on this Middle Earth. But today let us not recollect your death. Let us recall your life, and remember the deeds you did which stayed with us all… You stay with us, in our hearts, and will for ever."

"Those are very nice words," Iarék said, softly, when Sheglock had finished. Sheglock felt a tear on his cheek, and brushed it away, as Iarék continued the service.

"From your lps come kind and faithful words, and ones well spoken. Now listen as I read our poem. Listen only, and feel it as it vibrates the harpstrings of your heart. Even though you know it already, perhaps now it will take on new meaning."

_Now listen to the din of the town square:  
Now listen to the shouting and the screams.  
Who do we know will always be down there,  
In his face, joy; in his eyes, sparkling gleams?_

_Ulûrk – mighty trader and conqueror;  
Ever present to take in his whole share.  
__Over the merchants, he's an emperor.  
He won't relent until their deal is fair._

_Uphold the justice of the trade, old friend,  
And never will your mem'ry be darkened._

_But lo! with sword in hand, Ulûrk gazed West,  
And saw the troubled lands he sought to mend.  
So, upholding the Right he lovèd best,  
His former craft he was willing to end._

_He left the forge to go become a knight,  
And though, to us, his deeds at war are black,  
Valiant we know they were, and always right.  
_

_Ulûrk, kind friend, we dearly want you back!_

Sheglock sighed, feeling a curious sense of contentment that, at the beginning of the day, had been the last thing he had expected to feel. He had been worried that the funeral would make him miss Ulûrk more. But it hadn't. It had definitely confirmed Ulûrk's departure, but, in doing so, it had lit his way on to the grand halls of the next life. The last line of the poem, which Sheglock had insisted on adding, despite Iarék's objections, now seemed out-of place. Sheglock finally realised what Iarék had been tying to tell him all along. He didn't really want to drag Ulûrk back here onto this suffering planet. He wanted his friend to remain in the eternal happiness that Iarék had assured him was through death's door.

"Well?" Sheglock looked up. His head had been bowed while Iarék had read the poem. Now Iarék was looking intently at him.

"We need to change the last line," Sheglock said. "I was wrong."

Iarék smiled. "I understand," he said. "There is a difference between being told what to feel, and feeling it in your own heart. But I already have another ending prepared, in hope that I should prove right."

"Let's hear it."

"Kindness and courage never did you lack."

"That works for me," Sheglock said, walking over to the tables. He blew out the candles, and as he did so, he fancied that he saw Ulûrk, smiling, and waving to him, then marching, army-style, off into the sky. "Goodbye, my friend."

After a pause, where the two orcs bowed their heads in a respectful silence, Iarék relit the candles. It was time to honour Morrick.

Sheglock wasn't sure how he would take this. He could not believe that it would give him the same sense of contentment as Ulûrk's had. He was still unable to comprehend that his brother was gone for good. He tried to look at the facts, to understand what they meant. He would never see Morrick again.

He would never see Morrick again. No, it couldn't be. Some constants of one's life never went away. One's parents, for instance. Or one's brother. Sheglock was not ready to give up hope. He was not ready to make the death final.

Sheglock didn't think he was naïve. But he truly felt that Morrick was still around. And he truly wanted his brother back, for his own sake, more than anyone's.

"Firri," Sheglock head Iarék call into the house. "You coming?"

"No," came the reply.

"Why not?" Iarék asked. They heard a sigh from inside.

"I can't accept that he is gone. I don't think he is."

"Nor do I," Sheglock admitted, relieved that he was not alone. "Let's not do this yet."

"Clearly the wound is still too fresh," Iarék said quietly. Sheglock, as was his custom, grew angry.

"_There is no wound._ I haven't lost him!"

"I am afraid that it is a little late to go into denial," Iarék said delicately.

"I can go into denial at any time I want!" Sheglock roared at him, not really thinking about what he was saying. He stormed off to the stables, hopped onto Merân, and rode off toward town.

As he rode, his temper subsided, and he was calmed. Riding usually had that effect on him. It was therapeutic – the wind whipping his face was blowing away all the hatred, anger, and frustration. Sheglock felt bad for yelling at his friend, but he still felt his reasons were valid. Iarék was trying to deprive him of the one hope that was keeping him alive each night – that small gem of hope that somehow, despite all logic, Morrick had survived the war. Sheglock could not accept otherwise. He realised that he never really had. To him, Morrick had never really been gone. He was not ready to deal with that loss.

He used the small scraps of meat in his pocket to get by Bokluk, disappointed, as he had intended them to be his snack. He rode on toward the town square, wanting to find a quiet corner of the plaza where he could cool off.

But when he arrived, Sheglock realised that something peculiar was happening. A crowd of orcs was clustered around the fountain, muttering excitedly.

Sheglock uncomfortably pushed his way through them, curiosity conquering his claustrophobia. Right near the fountain he found a filthy orc, covered in dust and grime. He was eagerly washing himself with clean water, drawn from the well.

Who is he?" Sheglock asked the orc to his left.

"Dunno. He jus' arrived here, righ'. He's come from the ba'le at the ga'e, we reck'n."

Sheglock's heart leapt. From the battle at the gate! So there _were_ survivors!

After about ten minutes, the dirt was completely gone, and the orc sighed. "Thank ya. Now, I suppose I gotta explain myself."

"Please," said Sheglock, while others murmured in approval.

"My name's Têrk, and like ya've all been guessing, I've just returned from the Black Gate."

"You fought in the battle?" one of the onlookers asked.

"That's right, Helkor. And ya saw what happened. We don't know how…"

"How do–" Helkor stuttered, "How do you know my name?"

"I lived here, ya know. And I used ta see ya down at the market a lot. Most o' ya I know."

"Creepy…" Helkor muttered in what sounded like an impressed tone.

"How did ya make it here?" another orc asked.

"I ran. When he fell, I ran. And I kept on running…"

"Did they chase ya? Did the Men chase ya?"

"No. I reckon a lot of us escaped them. Though a lot o' us perished on the way back, ya know. We had no supplies… I was lucky ta have grabbed a Man-corpse, and I carried it on my back as I ran. It's a habit fer us army folk. Ya take food when ya can get it."

"You were in the army?" Sheglock asked. "Did you know Ulûrk?"

Têrk scrunched up his face. "Name sounds familiar. My friend Largg mighta mentioned him once…"

"You knew Largg!?" Sheglock yelled in surprise.

"I marched with him fer a coupla days in Ithilien."

"I went ta Dorezátz with him! Did you see him… die?"

"Last I saw o' him, he was perfectly healthy. But then I got injured and had ta stay behind in the Haunted City. Later, I was deported, if that's the word fer it, up ta the Gate, fer the final battle."

Sheglock sighed. He missed Largg. And he knew that there was no chance he had survived. Gondor had eradicated everyone who had gone to Minas Tirith.

But still, Têrk's arrival had given Sheglock hope. It seemed that many of the orcs who had fought in the Morannon had survived. Gondor had not, apparently, charged forward at the time of Sauron's ruin.

There was a chance that Morrick had survived also, and Sheglock felt that consuming hope flare up in his chest.

He left Têrk and the others, hopped on his warg, and bolted toward home, to apologise to Iarék, but, more importantly, to relay the news, and the hope that came with it.


	55. Chapter 55

**VI**

**Firri**

Over the next few days to a week, the refugees kept on coming. Many of them were soldiers from Garkhôn's reserve troops, though some were simply citizens of Barad-dûr who had stopped at the first major town they could find. All of them shared similar stories of the events immediately following Sauron's downfall.

Firri gathered that there had been a mass exodus of orcs from the Capital City. According to witnesses, the entire city had emptied, every citizen heading off to fight in the war. Only the women and children had stayed behind, and even some women had gone off.

When Sauron had mysteriously fallen, the residents of Barad-dûr had returned, for the most part, to the City. But they had found it uninhabitable. Talug, an orc who had just recently arrived in Garkhôn, had summed it up to Firri.

"There was no food, no meat, nothing. The Tower itself was just black rock. Ya know what I mean – ya used to be able to feel his presence. The eye was gone. he was gone. It was just cold, dark rock, and it couldn't feed us."

Firri wanted to reconstruct the events of the battle, starting with her departure from Barad-dûr. So far, she knew that the orcs had all fled. Few had perished in the actual battle – the majority had not even fought at all. For, inexplicably, Sauron had been destroyed, and after that they had lost all reason to fight.

Morrick, she gathered, as loyal as he was, was no soldier, and would not have been in the front lines. For, of course, he was the reason behind her zeal. Firri had gotten up off the couch the moment Sheglock had brought news of this Têrk. She had gone out and interviewed all the survivors, inviting them to Sheglock's house for tea as they poured in. And each time another figure was seen tramping through the gray plains toward Garkhôn's plaza, she hoped it was Morrick. She knew he was still alive, and coming.

But so far they had seen no signs of him. Nor had they met anyone who had known him. That was the first question she had posed to each of the refuges. And, almost every time, they had assured her they did not know of any Morrick.

"My uncle's name is Morrick," one of them had said infuriatingly. His name was Ratfer, and he had been in Garkhôn's army. Somehow Firri knew that Morrick he mentioned was not her fiancé.

The closest she had gotten was from an orc who introduced himself as Poärelah. He nodded in recognition when she had asked about Morrick.

"Yeah, I knew him. The new smith. I live just two doors down from this house."

"Did you see him at war?"

Poärelah smiled. "Nah. I didn't know he had gone to the war. He wasn't a soldier. Still, knowing his loyalty, that doesn't surprise me."

Firri sighed in disappointment. "Yeah, he was loyal…"

"Well, if you need anything else, I'm just down the road," Poärelah said as he left. Firri did not visit him again.

She had returned to the house after a week, as Morrick had not yet shown up. Doubt crept back into her mind. She began to dance over the possibility of his death. She wouldn't admit it, _never!_ But she realised she was admitting the possibility of the possibility.

Firri reflected on all that had happened since she had met Morrick. She had been naïve and inexperienced. He had taught her, directing her growth. Then she had struggled to ask for his hand in marriage, and finally done so. Then, when she had thought it was all over, he had agreed! After all that, could he really leave her?

It seemed he could. There were no signs of him. No one had seen him in the battle.

Firri returned to the couch. She had given up. Sheglock and Iarék came in and tried to console her, but she wouldn't be consoled.

But still, she _couldn't_ believe she had lost Morrick. So she ignored Iarék, only hearing Sheglock's optimistic comments.

"He couldn't have, you know… he's still alive. I feel it."

"So do I," Firri said, trusting her intuition over her common sense. She didn't like what her common sense was telling her. And her gut was saying the exact opposite.

"Perhaps that is best, for now," Iarék said. Firri didn't understand what he meant, but she agreed. It was best not to give up hope.

Days came and went. Their dismal supply of food, the five birds that some merchant had delivered a week before, was almost depleted. The merchant had come on the day after Têrk's arrival. Sheglock had traded away Morrick's bricks for the food. She now wondered if this meant that he too was giving up.

She, however, had not, and would not. She tried, but her soul wouldn't let her. Each day she watched out the large front window, waiting for Morrick to come riding up, a huge smile on his face. For if he returned— she stopped herself. _When_, not _if_. When he returned, he would certainly come here first. This was his home. This was where he should be.

Occasionally, in the morning, Sheglock would come and lie quietly in the black velvet armchair beside the window, and stare out into the distance without speaking. She did not interrupt or question him, knowing, or at least suspecting she knew, the motive behind this action. The first time this had happened was the moment Firri realised that Sheglock had not yet deserted his brother.

The sun rose and set. Days passed by fleetingly. Firri was no longer paying attention to anything – not the dwindling food supply, not the worry of the others over her state. What did she care? So what if she died? She had lost the meaning in her life.

One day, early in the morning, Sheglock spoke for the first time. He was situated in his usual spot by the window. Firri had known that he was there, but she was ignoring him, closing her eyes. When he spoke, she hardly heard his voice, which was a low, hoarse whisper.

"Oh my god."

Firri looked up. Sheglock was staring out the window, a look of what seemed to be horror on his face.

"Oh my god!" he repeated, his voice this time high and shrill. Iarék came rushing into the room.

"What?"

"He's here!" Sheglock shrieked. "Morrick's here!"

Firri felt her heart speed up. She could barely breathe. So great were her feelings of shock, relief, and joy that she collapsed to the ground. Only now did she realise that she _had_ given up hope. That she had doubted, not for a moment, but for long and weary days. She had never expected him to return.

She bolted up, ran to the window, and peered out. Sure enough, there he was, almost crawling up the dirt path, covered in dust. He looked like a ghost. But he was still Morrick. He was still alive.

He vanished from sight, and presently they heard him outside on the threshold. He knocked on the door. Once. Twice. Sheglock ran over and opened it wide.

"Sheglock," he muttered, collapsing into his brother's arms.

"You're alive, bro!" Sheglock cried in delight, sounding amazed that it was true.

"Barely," Morrick groaned. He turned toward the living room.

Firri couldn't speak, and she couldn't move toward him. But then he was smiling at her, and she ceased to notice the dust and scratches covering his face. "Come here, love," he said with a wide grin, and Firri realised she could move. She ran forward, taking him into her arms, and they embraced for a long time, wordlessly. Firri did not let go. She would never let go.

"I'm not going anywhere," Morrick laughed. She let her arms drop, and he walked over to the couch. "Sorry you have to see my house like this," he said to her. "If only I'd arrived sooner than you, so that I could make it fit for my guest."

"Do you want some food?" Iarék asked. Morrick looked up, looking surprised to see him there.

"You?" he asked, his voice almost a hiss. Iarék was taken aback. So was Firri.

"What did I do?"

"What did you do?" Morrick repeated venomously. "Beside prophesy this outcome? Besides praying for his destruction every waking minute of your cursed, ungrateful, life? What did you do?"

"This isn't what I wanted," Iarék muttered in embarrassment.

"You _wanted_ him to be gone!" Morrick yelled, standing up. "And now he is. Now we're _here_! Happy?"

Sheglock steeped in. "Iarék's been real good to us."

"This is between him and I," Morrick said. "I'm sorry you have to see me yelling like this. But I just saw my country fall apart. All that I ever believed in, crumble. And this moron told me, just before I left, that he wanted anarchy. Let me at him!"

Firri forced back tears. This wasn't the happy reunion she had dreamed of. She should have known; it was Morrick.

"I'm sorry about what happened to you," Iarék said. "Though I certainly didn't cause it, or aid in doing so."

"Then what did?" Morrick challenged. "For a fortnight I've roamed the streets of Gorgoroth, lost, trying to answer this one question. And I can think of only one answer. The Enemy had inside help. Someone in Mordor betrayed Sauron."

" 'Who?' I asked myself. 'Who would do such a thing?' But I already knew."

"It wasn't me!" Iarék pleaded.

"It couldn't've been," Firri said slowly. He turned to her.

"Why not?" he asked, though with an even voice.

"He was with us when it happened. He was in this very room, with me."

Morrick sighed. "I know. I know it wasn't him. I'm being silly. But I need _someone_! he's gone. he was the centre of my life. What do I do now?"

"Find another orc to centre your life about," Firri suggested with a smile. "Marry me."

"Of course… I'm sorry. Sauron's gone now. Unbelievable, yet it has happened, and he really is. Now I have aught left that I owe loyalty to, save the fulfilment of my promises, to you and to others. Of course we should marry. Of course… I'd love to have a huge wedding, so we can forget our sorrows. What do you say?"

"That sounds great," Firri cried. He was smiling again. For the first time since Sauron's fall, Firri was happy.

"I'll make that wedding spectacular," she muttered to herself.


	56. Chapter 56

**VII**

**Sheglock**

Sheglock was staring absentmindedly out the window. He didn't know why he still was waiting for Morrick. Something told him that there was little hope now of his brother's return. He was watching more out of habit than out of expectation.

So it was that he at first didn't notice the lone figure creeping up the road toward the house. When he did, he felt as though he had been hit by a bolt of lightning. He opened his mouth in utter shock and disbelief, and then closed it again.

"Oh my god." he murmured, dumbfounded.

Then he found his voice again, and let out a loud shrill cry. The approaching orc had just lifted his face, and Sheglock could see that it was unmistakably his brother. "Oh my god!" he shrilled. Iarék came rushing into the room, looking concerned.

"What?"

"He's here!" Sheglock shrieked. "Morrick's here!"

Morrick continued toward the house, coming around to the doorstep, and knocking on the door. Sheglock ran over and opened it wide.

"Sheglock," Morrick muttered, collapsing. Sheglock held him and supported him back to his feet.

"You're alive, bro!" he cried in elation, amazed, but happier than he had been in a long while.

"Barely," Morrick groaned, and Sheglock noticed how weary he was. He turned into the living room, where the others stood, looking confused.

"Come here, love," he said to Firri with a wide grin. She ran forward and they embraced for a long time.

"I'm not going anywhere," Morrick laughed at length. She let him go, and he headed to the untidy couch, frowning as he eyed the mess. "Sorry you have to see my house like this," he told Firri. "If only I'd arrived sooner than you, so that I could make it fit for my guest."

"Do you want some food?" Iarék asked from behind Sheglock. Morrick looked up, looking surprised to see him there. He glared.

"You?" he hissed. Iarék and Firri seemed taken aback.

But Sheglock sighed. He had expected something like this. Of all the orcs in the room, he knew his brother best. He was the only one aware of Morrick's imperishable loyalty. He had known his brother would be devastated, and would probably need someone to take it out on. Sheglock sighed, feeling pity for his friend, but unwilling to arbitrate.

"What did I do?" Iarék asked, sounding confused.

"What did you do?" Morrick repeated mockingly. "Beside prophesy this outcome? Besides praying for his destruction every waking minute of your cursed, ungrateful, life? What did you do?"

"This isn't what I wanted," Iarék muttered, seeming embarrassed.

"You wanted him to be gone!" Morrick yelled. He stood up. "And now he is. Happy?" He screamed this last word, causing Sheglock to jump. Sheglock decided that intervention was now necessary. Iarék was unused to Morrick, and was looking thoroughly unnerved.

"Iarék's been real good to us." he told his brother.

"This is between him and I," Morrick said with a sigh. "I'm sorry you have to see me yelling like this. But I just saw my country fall apart. All that I ever believed in, crumble. And this moron told me, just before I left, that he wanted anarchy. Let me at him!"

Sheglock planted himself between his brother and the innocent victim, and did not budge.

"I'm sorry about what happened," Iarék said, stepping up to Sheglock's side. "Though I certainly didn't cause it, or aid in doing so."

"Then what did?" Morrick asked, sounding to Sheglock more hopeless than angry. "For a fortnight I've roamed the streets of Gorgoroth, lost, trying to answer this one question. And I can think of only one answer. The Enemy had inside help. Someone in Mordor betrayed Sauron."

He inhaled deeply, then continued. " 'Who?' I asked myself. 'Who would do such a thing?' But I already knew."

"It wasn't me!" Iarék pleaded.

"It couldn't've been," Firri said slowly. He turned to her.

"Why not?" Morrick asked, with a surprisingly stable voice.

"He was with us when it happened. He was in this very room, with me."

Morrick sighed, the logical side of his brain finally winning over. "I know. I know it wasn't him. But I need someone to blame it on. he's gone. he was the centre of my life. What do I do now?"

Sheglock didn't know what to say. But Firri stepped forward.

"Find another orc to centre your life about," she suggested. "Marry me."

Morrick sighed, hugging her. "Of course… I'm sorry. Sauron's gone now. Unbelievable, yet it has happened, and he really is. Now I have aught left that I owe loyalty to, save the fulfilment of my promises, to you and to others. Of course we should marry. Of course… I'd love to have a huge wedding, so we can forget our sorrows. What do you say?"

"That sounds great," Firri cried in excitement. Morrick smiled.

"Good. I'll leave you to plan that. Use your god-given leadership and organisation skills, and let's make it a night to be remembered, all across Garkhôn."

"I will," she promised.

"Good. Now, I need to talk with my brother."

Morrick left the room, and Sheglock followed.

"I'm sorry!" he blurted as soon as they were out of the others' earshot.

"For what?"

"For the way I treated you, at Barad-dûr."

Morrick laughed. "I'd already forgiven you, and indeed entirely forgotten about it. I just wanted to ask you how you were, and discuss what has happened here."

"I'm fine – happier than ever. I tried not to give up hope, even though logic told me to ages ago. But I didn't. Nor, I suppose, did Firri."

"How did she act?" Morrick asked. Sheglock hesitated, and he groaned. "She's always so tough when I'm around. Please don't tell me that she fell to pieces again. When Kâlask said so, I could hardly believe him."

"Well, she was definitely very zealous about finding you, interviewing all the returnees from the war."

"Give me the truth," Morrick said in resignation. "The full truth."

"Well, what do you want?" Sheglock asked with a smile. "The truth, or what you asked to hear?"

"She moped?"

"Er – not exactly. But she did lay on the couch a lot…"

"How much?"

"Days."

Morrick groaned. "She got up to consume, at least?"

"We're short on food," Sheglock explained. Morrick got the message, and shook is head in disbelief.

"She's a strong character, but she has her weakness."

"It's called love," Sheglock said sarcastically. Morrick smiled.

"That's why I put up with it. But tell me, who is Garkhôn's leader now?"

"We don't have one. Iarék calls it anarchy. He thinks it is the best thing to happen to Mordor."

"Well, a leader will arise. But until then, it will be rough. What has happened already."

"I can go into town, and you will see. We need more food, anyway."

"Is Gortog's Wargs still running?"

"Yes…"

"That's good."

Sheglock sighed. "It's still running, but I don't work there anymore. I was fired a few weeks ago."

"How have you been getting food?" Morrick asked in surprise.

Sheglock shrugged. "Selling stuff around the house."

"And trading it at the market? You hate the plaza!"

"Not anymore. It's a lot quieter now. There are hardly any merchants. You have to look for them."

"That's not a good thing," Morrick explained. Sheglock shrugged.

"Come on, let's grab the last scrap of meat, and head down there."

"Why do we need food to buy some more?"

"You need to pay the tool at Bokluk's Pass. He commandeered the road."

Morrick rolled his eyes. "See, if there was a ruler, stuff like that wouldn't happen. Still, it was a good move for him, logically, albeit immoral."

Sheglock sighed. "Well, let's get going. We can stop by our parents' house. I'm sure they should come to the wedding."

Morrick checked with Firri, and she happily agreed that their parents should attend the ceremony. "And your aunts, uncles, and cousins!" she cried. Morrick laughed.

"Both our mom and dad were only children."

"Grandparents, then!" Firri cried in excitement. Morrick didn't respond. Firri wasn't aware that their only surviving grandfather had a severe case of dementia, and probably thought Sauron was still around, and had the Ring.

They walked to town, as there was only one warg betwixt the two of them, and she was already weak from lack of food. Sheglock doubted that she would have been able to carry two people.

When they reached Bokluk's Pass, Sheglock dutifully paid, and Morrick rolled his eyes. "I'm going to commandeer the well," he said facetiously. "People will have to pay for their—"

He broke off, as they saw a group of orcs standing around the well, shouting. Sheglock assumed it was another refuge from the war. But as they neared the scene, they realised this was not the case.

"What happened?" Morrick asked.

One of the orcs Sheglock recognised as their neighbour, Poärelah. He stared at them in shock.

"Morrick! I'd heard you were dead!"

"No. Though frankly, I'm surprised at that too."

"He's not dead yet," an orc near the well growled, "but he will be soon. We all will be!"

"The well's run dry," Poärelah explained. Morrick groaned.

"No point in claiming it now, then."

"We haven't had any rain for almost a year," another orc in the crowd remarked.

"This is the wet season," Morrick said. "Spring…"

"But it's almost summer now. Face it, guys. We're in a drought."

Morrick sighed. "If our entire city crumbles, I won't be surprised. This is why we need someone to write the rules!"

"Why don't you?" the orc sneered.

Morrick smiled. "I'll remember that."

Sheglock wandered around the plaza, searching for merchants. Morrick followed, frowning. Eventually they found the only orc selling meat.

"You got food?" Morrick asked. He nodded.

"What type?" Sheglock asked.

"Orc," he replied. Sheglock was appalled. Morrick, however, didn't seem to mind.

"What do you want for it?" Morrick asked.

Sheglock, however, was more concerned about the process involved in getting it. "Was he, er, anyone you knew?"

"My father," the orc replied without the slightest hint of emotion. Sheglock shivered.

"And now you're butchering him and selling his flesh?"

"I didn't kill him. And I need food for myself. I doubt my father–" he gestured to the corpse laying behind him, "–would want me to die."

"How about a new, sharp sword so you can defend your shop," Morrick suggested. "Logically, if you're the only orc around with food, people will try and steal it from you. You need protection."

"Where is the sword?"

"At the forge. It was fashioned jointly by the late Ulûrk and myself, when I was under his apprenticeship."

"Bring it here, and you may have a deal," the orc said.

As they walked off toward their parents' house, Sheglock turned in horror to his brother. "You sick?"

"No. Why?"

"You know perfectly well why!"

"What is wrong with it? Orcs consume orcs all the time. Their comrades who died in battle."

"I wouldn't agree with that practise either. It's immoral, that's what it is."

"It's practical."

"You know, there is a word in the Common Tongue for it. 'Cannibalism,' they call it."

"Which 'they?' Men, you mean? There is no word in our tongue differentiating the flesh of our peers from any other meat. Meat is nothing miraculous. It is the same in an orc, a cow, or a Man."

Sheglock sighed. "It's just that it feels so wrong…"

"Better than wasting all those resources by burying the corpse. Unless an orc dies by disease or poison, it seems wrong to me not to utilise him. You will consume it, okay?"

"I guess," Sheglock shrugged.

They had arrived at their parents' house. Sheglock looked up at it, his childhood memories flowing back to him. It seemed that their parents had lived in this house for ever. It was the same house in which Sheglock had first learned to walk. Now, thirty-five years from the date of his birth, it still looked exactly the same.

He sighed. It had been almost half a year since they had last seen their parents. Normally they came every two or three months, but the last couple of months had been extraordinarily busy. But Sheglock knew that was no excuse.

Morrick strode forward and knocked on the door. An aged orc opened it, and his face broke into a wide smile.

"Son, am I glad to see you!" he cried, embracing Morrick, and quickly letting go. "There were some rumours flying around that you had left us."

"But you didn't believe them, right, dad?" Morrick laughed. It was well known inside the family that Ûtok never did anything without thoroughly considering both the pros and cons extensively.

"Dad!" Sheglock cried, leaping from behind into his father's arms. His dad laughed. "It's been a long time since I've seen you. Klair insisted that we go to your place, but I told her, 'They're probably just real busy.' And she actually listened to me!"

Sheglock laughed. They went inside, and there their mother, Klára, embraced them both.

"Goodness, I was so worried. What happened?"

They spent a while describing their adventures, from Alzág to Barad-dûr. While they recollected their tale, Ûtok served tea.

"This is getting rarer and rarer," he said. "Don't spill."

Morrick laughed. "So, how is life here?"

"Same as always, son. It's hard. I had to take on a job again, because I'm no longer receiving my pension from Barad-dûr."

Morrick sighed heavily. Their father had once been a solider, and for his service, Sauron had paid him monthly pensions. "his fall has affected us all."

"Indeed it has," Ûtok agreed.

"Why did it happen?" Morrick asked desperately.

"I have a theory," Ûtok said.

Morrick waited. "Tell him, honey," Klára said softly, after a while.

"Well, I'm not sure, but I think, and know that this is only speculation, but if I could hazard to guess I would assume that—"

"Dad," Morrick said in exasperation. Sheglock tried his hardest not to laugh. It was so typical of his father. Ûtok hated guessing, or saying things that he wasn't sure were true.

"I think the Ring was destroyed," Ûtok said at last.

"Destroyed?"

"Sauron founded his entire empire on it. Nothing could bring him to his knees, save that. Of course, this is only my opinion."

"I know dad. But how do you think it was destroyed? Only the fire of Orodruin could unmake it."

"Did you hear of the spies?" Ûtok asked. "They captured a _hobbit_ at Cirith Ungol, and he escaped. Last piece of news that ever came here. I'm guessing – though this is only a guess, not concrete fact, that it was Baggins. Gondor sent him into Mordor to destroy the Ring."

"Then that was Gondor's own folly," Morrick said. "With it, they could've enslaved us all. But they left us free. And from the ashes of the destruction, a new leader shall emerge."

"Still, his fall has altered the world as we know it," Ûtok remarked.

"But it hasn't altered love," Sheglock realised aloud. Morrick smiled.

"Of course not," Klára said. "Your father and I know well that love persists through every disagreement, and every trial."

"I think he's trying to redirect the conversation toward the announcement I'm supposed to be making," Morrick said. Sheglock smiled, as, ironically, that had not been his intention. He had merely been speaking his thoughts.

"You found someone?" his mother asked in anticipation.

"Yes!" Morrick replied with a smile, then added, as an afterthought, "But I don't think even she knows how much I really love her."

"Congratulations! Oh, Morrick, I'm so happy for you!"

"We're engaged already, and planning to marry."

"That's wonderful!" Klára cried.

"Wait, son," Ûtok said slowly. "When did you meet her?"

"Two or three months ago."

"You don't think you're rushing it? When I met Klair, I was dating her for years before we formalised it!"

"That's just your nature, honey," Klára laughed. "I say, if he's ready, let's support him all the way."

"Right," Ûtok sighed. "I'm glad for you, son. Nervous, but still glad. And of course, I hope that it works out alright."

"Will you come to our wedding?"

"Of course!" both their parents cried.

"Though I'd like to meet her first," Ûtok said. "What's her name?"

"Firri."

"Okay. Well, I'm glad for you, and happy to see you again. Though I daresay you have better things to do than chat with a couple of old geezers." He laughed. "You can stay with Klair if you want, but I've got to go to work."

"What's your new job, dad?" Sheglock asked in interest.

"Mining," Ûtok grunted. "I'm too old for it. But there's no choice. I have myself and Klair to fed, and our money is worthless. A hundred gold coins… Well, anyway, I'll see you soon, then. We'll drop by your house to meet your girl."

"Bye dad," Sheglock said as Ûtok walked out the door.

They said goodbye to their mother, then headed back home. On the way Morrick stopped by the forge for the sword, and they quickly traded it for a leg of the corpse. Sheglock tried his hardest not to look at it.

"I hope Firri plans the wedding soon," Morrick said as they walked up the path toward their house.

"Why?" Sheglock asked.

"Because honestly I don't know how much longer we have to live."


	57. Chapter 57

**VIII**

**Firri**

Pretty soon Morrick fell back into the daily routine of their lives, and his return began to feel more natural. Each day he would go to work at the forge, and it was only by selling his various artefacts that they managed to eke out a living. Firri began to realise just how dependant she was on him, and not only for food. Since his return, she had been motivated to go out and search for a job, though so far no one had been willing to take her.

But even if she had got one, she was rather unable to take on any more at the moment. Planning the wedding had turned into a fulltime occupation. It had turned into a lot more trouble than she had expected, and she only persisted because she really needed it to be huge. It was the climax of her life, and she needed to show that.

It was time to introduce their relatives. Firri had already contacted hers, long before, and they were mostly in the area. Some had even come from far away, knowing how much it mattered. She was excited to show them Morrick, and to meet his relations herself.

Morrick, however, insisted that his parents were the only relatives he knew or cared about.

"I invited them already," he told her. "They'll come any time now."

Indeed, the next day they came by, and Morrick politely introduced them.

"Mom, this is Firri, my fiancée. Firri, meet my mother, Klára."

"Nice to meet you."

"And here is my father, Ûtok."

"You look alright," Morrick's father said as he shook Firri's hand. She could tell that he was surveying her.

"Come inside," Morrick offered. "Firri's been staying here, only because her house was taken over by a band of homeless rogues. Oh, and here's Iarék – another refugee in our house. He's from Barad-dûr."

Firri had been surprised, for since his anger at their first encounter, Morrick had become very accepting of Iarék. It was a pleasant reminder of why she liked him so much.

Morrick's parents stayed some time, discussing discussed plans for the wedding. "I can get food," Ûtok said. "I have connexions in Zôrek." Firri knew that Zôrek was the capital of Erranór, located just south of Garkhôn.

"Is their situation any better than ours?" Iarék asked.

"I had inferred, their being on the Erranór-Nurn border, and considering that most of our food comes from the south, and rather hastily concluding they most probably were, but as I have not been there for many years my opinion may be—"

"Enough, dad," Morrick interrupted. "We need to make a good impression on my fiancée." Firri smiled, amused.

"Well, I'll try to get you guys something. More vegetables than meat, I'm afraid, but it is better than naught, at least that's what I think, but you might – oh, sorry son."

"Was he ways like this?" Firri asked incredulously.

"Yes, though it's gotten worse lately. Since his fall. Now he believes nothing for certain."

"Anyway," Ûtok said, sounding embarrassed, "I'll try to get down there as soon as I can."

"When do you plan on doing the ceremony?" Morrick's mom asked.

"In a week." It seemed so far off, but too close. But, even with so much to do, it wasn't as much of a hassle as it could have been. Iarék would read the vows to them. It was unnecessary. Without Sauron, no one needed to legalise their marriage. It was purely symbolic. She didn't think that Morrick approved.

"If I am not utterly mistaken, as is so often the case, I may possibly be able to give you by that time or thereabouts something that you with some stretch of the imagination can call a feast," Ûtok said. Firri took it as a promise, and was delighted.

Later that week her own family came by, and Firri got a little excited introducing them to Morrick. She had rounded up as many of her relatives as she could, and invited them all to Morrick's house (and without his explicit consent). Fortunately, he was amused, not angry, when eight orcs showed up one afternoon.

"This is my father, Oglogg," she introduced him. "My mother passed away ages ago."

"Here's my aunt Tora, and her husband, Rélak. Then we have my grandmother – glad you could come – her name's Fourren. And here's Uncle Koäçoh, all the way from Talûrnna, if you can believe it! I'm so sorry to hear about your wife… Okay, this is Ereina, my cousin – she's Aunt Tora's daughter, and her husband Grinkoshank. And that's everyone who's coming."

"Hi," Morrick said feebly, looking overwhelmed. Firri laughed.

"They won't bite."

"Maybe we will," Ereina said dangerously, but with a smile. Firri knew she was kidding, but Morrick seemed to take it literally.

Iarék and Sheglock rescued him by taking the guests aside and serving some ale. It was the penultimate keg of ale in the house. Firri had hidden the last one for use at the actual wedding celebration. She had also hidden the wine, and a good portion of the meat. She felt slightly guilty every time they had to scrabble around to find food, but she knew it would be worth it in the end.

Her relatives hung around a while longer than Morrick's had, but eventually Uncle Koäçoh got himself drunk, and grew angry with Sheglock over a petty conversation. Uncle Koäçoh was a lot like Morrick – sound logic was his foundation, and one of Sheglock's comments about art had infuriated him.

"We'll take him home," Aunt Tora said exasperatedly. "He's staying at our place."

"Okay, bye…" Firri muttered uncomfortably. For a while there was silence at the table, but then the remainder of Firri's relatives got up and left, leaving only her father.

"It's always like that, ain't it, when we get all our folks together," her dad muttered in apology.

"No problem," Morrick said.

"You know, I like you. I think my daughter got lucky, finding you."

"Thanks," Morrick muttered, red. Oglogg laughed.

"That's a compliment, son!"

"But it's true," Firri said, almost dreamily. Morrick rolled his eyes.

"Anyway, you two plan the party. I'll be there, for sure."

"It's in two days, on Saturday," she explained. Normally, Saturday was the day that everyone took off. Now, however, it was just like any other day. They would just have to take it off.

Firri's father left, and Morrick heaved a huge sigh. "Next time, warn me," he said.

"Sorry. I just completely forgot. It's been real busy!"

"That's alright. It will all be better in two days."

"Much better. And not for the reasons you're thinking."

Morrick smiled, but didn't respond. He was letting her have her way with this, and Firri appreciated him ever more for it.

And she couldn't calm down. Only two more days!


	58. Chapter 58

**IX**

**Morrick**

The day of the wedding had finally arrived. Morrick was excited for Firri. He knew that it mattered a lot to her. Logically, he knew that it made no difference. He wanted to keep his own emotion out of it. But he couldn't help but feel some fragment of the excitement of his fiancée.

Firri was hyper that morning, and she darted around the house, putting up little decorations everywhere. "Where did you get these?" Morrick asked, fingering a small silk flower.

"Iarék gave them to me. He says they won't sell."

"They're nice," Morrick said. They were also impractical, but that he did not voice aloud. Today was not the time to bring up that issue.

Morrick's dad came early with some food, though not as much as Morrick had expected. "Is the town of Zôrek in a famine too, dad?" he asked.

"No," Ûtok replied heavily, "but this old orc was waylaid by bandits, and they took all the meat."

Morrick was shocked. "Dad! Are you okay! Are you hurt?"

"I'm believe I am fine," his father assured him. "I am afraid you will just have to do without the extra food."

"We have plenty, with your addition," Morrick assured him. "I think Firri must've gone to the market, because there's a lot more food on the table now than was in the entire house yesterday."

"She couldn't have gone to the market," Iarék aid, walking into the room. "She was here all morning, running around while you slept like a log."

Morrick shrugged. "Well, she worked her magic. Want to help me set up the table?"

Together with Iarék, they dragged the dining room table outside onto the patio, and set it next to the table that was already there. Ûtok tried to help, but Morrick stopped him. His farther was getting too old for strenuous labour. Ûtok compromised by bringing in the heavy wooden chairs, two at a time. Morrick was alarmed.

"Careful, dad!"

"Now son, I seem to be doing just fine, here and in the mines, so I would believe I'm in fine shape, though I am never—"

"Logically, you deteriorate as you grow older."

Ûtok shrugged. "Sorry. That was just my opinion. I don't mean anything by it. I hope you don't—"

"Maybe," Morrick agreed in exacerbation.

A while later, Firri went into the kitchen to prepare the food with her cousin (whose name Morrick had completely forgotten, as he had forgotten the names of all of Firri's relatives).

Soon more relatives poured in, and Morrick and Firri stood outside to greet them. "You feeling better, Uncle Koäçoh?" Firri asked the orc who had gotten drunk at their last meeting. He nodded.

"I reckon that ale's too strong for me."

"We've got wine too."

"How are you, mom," Morrick asked. Behind her were several more of Firri's numerous relations.

"Fine," Klára answered. "Where do we go?"

"In the back," Firri replied. "Oh, grandma, glad you could come!"

Finally everyone had arrived, including several unexpected guests. Their neighbour, Poärelah, had come from his house down the other end of the path, and Areng, one of Morrick's old friends from a long while back, had come to show him support. Or he had come for the food – that made more logical sense. In all, there were a solid fifteen guests, and they could barely fit around the small tables.

Once all the guests had taken their places, Iarék stood up. "Today we are here to celebrate the union of two splendid orcs, Firri and Morrick. They have staid together already through sickness and health, war and peace. Their commitment to each other is unsurpassed. Here we have two orcs who share a love so deep that even words cannot describe it. How I yearned to fit it to a poem, but Sheglock dissuaded me. This is how Sheglock described their love – here's a direct quote: 'He'll kill you if you fit his passion into a poem.' He also told me that Firri hates art – another direct quote – 'with a passion.' So I have neither poetry nor songs, naught but my own far-failing prose, though not for lack of sympathy. To Morrick and Firri, congratulations!"

Applause rang out across the table. When it died down, Iarék went on.

"Will the bride and groom please ascend to the patio."

Morrick got up, and, taking Firri's hand, led her forward. They stood side by side, facing their families.

"Are you prepared to take the oaths?" Iarék asked in a whisper. Morrick nodded.

He raised his voice. "Do you, Morrick, promise to care for Firri, and stay true to her, through good times and bad, sickness and health, and to honour her all the days of your life, till death take you?"

"I do."

"And do you, Firri, promise to care for Morrick, and stay true to him, through good times and bad, sickness and health, and to honour her all the days of your life?"

"I do," Firri said almost inaudibly.

"I then pronounce you husband and wife."

Firri turned to him, and he saw that her eyes were sparkling with tears. He smiled, and reached out his arms to take her. They embraced, and she began kissing him, and he never wanted to stop.

"I'm so happy," Firri almost cried at last.

"So am I," Morrick said sincerely. He took her in his arms and held her. Logically, they shouldn't get married, not now. Logically, he shouldn't settle down, not with the tumult of the world outside, not with his fall. Logically, he should break all ties, protect his emotions, live in isolation for the impending turmoil of the rebuilding of Mordor. But he needed her. Why, his logical mind couldn't say. But he didn't care. He knew it all the same.

The guests got up and came over to congratulate them. Then Iarék and Sheglock brought out the food, and for the first time Morrick realised just how much they had. He and Firri returned to the table, where he ate his fill for the first time since he had been in Kâlask's house back in Alzág. For the first time in months, he felt crapulous.

The feast lasted almost two hours, with the wine and plentiful food. But the conversation went on way beyond that. And thy talked about many things: their future together, whether or not they could afford a honeymoon (they couldn't), and even about other people's spouses and relationships. But the one topic they did not discuss, Morrick noticed, was the hardship that the town of Garkhôn was facing. That adversity had been entirely forgotten today. If for but one day, they could believe nothing had changed from that day by the well, so long ago, when a naïve young tracker had tried to wrest command from the hardened logician. If just for one day, life was pleasurable


	59. Chapter 59

**X**

**Sheglock**

Morrick's big day had finally arrived, and Sheglock was almost as excited as his brother. However, Morrick being generally more introverted with his emotions, Sheglock actually appeared far _more_ excited than Morrick was. Firri noticed this and remarked on it as he and Iarék were discussing what Iarék should say in the speech.

"I just show it more," Sheglock explains. "He loves you more than you know, though he's not about to admit it in front of all your relatives."

"He's scared of us?" Firri's cousin Ereina asked with an innocent smile, walking up beside Firri. "Come on, cousin, the meat will burn!"

Firri rushed back into the kitchen, and Sheglock turned back to Iarék.

"Just emphasise their deep affection for one another."

"He loves her more than the stars and the moon, and the golden sun in the clear blue sky, more than the grass—"

"Try not to be poetic, or cheesy," Sheglock laughed. "Morrick likes genuineness, and despises art."

"I was going to write a poem for them…"

"Don't. He'll kill you if you fit his passion into a poem."

Iarék laughed. "But what about Firri? Does she hate poetry too?"

Sheglock had a sudden reminiscence of the cave of Mark and Bob on the Gorgoroth-Dorezátz border. "With a passion," he said.

"Well, then I'll just say a few words, I suppose."

"Whatever comes to your head."

"Sure. Now, are they starting?"

Ereina stuck her head out of the kitchen door. "Yes! Hurry to the table. Especially you – I forgot your name – his brother!"

Sheglock hurried out to the table and took a chair to the immediate left of Morrick (Firri was, of course, was the orc at his brother's right). Iarék lay himself on the other side of Sheglock.

While Iarék waited for everyone to quiet down, Sheglock quickly reflected on all the work that the couple (most notably Firri) had put into it. He was amazed at the amount of food that she had been able to amass over the past few days. Where she had gotten it she had told no one, but Sheglock assumed she had worked hard for it. Also, Iarék's decorations were very nice. Sheglock was glad that brother had suffered their presence.

Iarék then got up and began to speak. After a while, he began quoting Sheglock, and smiled in his direction. Sheglock smiled back.

"To Morrick and Firri, congratulations!" Iarék concluded, nodding in their direction. The guests gave the couple a rousing cheer. Sheglock fervently joined in, whooping and shouting.

When the applause died down, Iarék continued the ceremony.

"Will the bride and groom please step up to the patio."

Morrick and Firri rose, hand in hand, and walked over to the patio, where Iarék was standing. Iarék then administered the oaths, and as he did so Sheglock saw tears on Firri's face. Morrick was immobile, but Sheglock knew him well enough to tell that he was deeply delighted. Even though his brother disapproved of love, calling it illogical and senseless, didn't mean that he couldn't experience it. Sheglock thought the experience was good for him. Firri, and his relationship with her, had broadened his mind.

"I then pronounce you husband and wife." Iarék exclaimed when they were done. Morrick grabbed her and held her in an embrace, and they kissed for a long time. When at last they broke apart, Firri burst into tears of joy, and audibly cried, "I'm so happy!"

"So am I," Morrick said, and Sheglock could tell that he meant it. The guests rose and went over to congratulate them. Knowing he would have time to show his appreciation for his brother later, Sheglock went into the kitchen, where Ereina had left the food. Iarék went with him, and they grabbed as many of the plates as they could.

The newlyweds returned to the table, and Sheglock and Iarék brought out the copious servings (through several trips to the kitchen). The feast had begun.

During the feast, Sheglock offered a hearty congratulations to his brother and Firri.

"Guess you're my sister now," he laughed. Firri smiled.

"I'm just so amazed – I never thought this day would come… Too many times have I almost lost you!" This last comment was aimed at Morrick.

"I thought the world was ending when Sauron fell," Morrick responded. "It goes to show how wrong an orc can be. It turns out that what came after the end is better than that which preceded it…"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you all this time," Iarék remarked with a smile.

Near the end of the feast, many of the guests began to leave. Firri's Uncle Koäçoh was the first to go, and Tora and Rélak left soon after. Then, wishing the new couple long years of prosperity, Ereina and her husband Grinkoshank headed home. The neighbours left, leaving only Morrick, Firri, Sheglock, Iarék, and the parents and grandparent.

"Can I talk to you?" Iarék asked Sheglock pulling him aside. Sheglock was surprised. His friend's voice sounded urgent and solemn.

"Of course. What?"

"Will you come over here?" Iarék asked, leading him a ways from the table, out onto the barren plains behind the house.

"What's all this about?" Sheglock asked in utter confusion.

"Don't you feel the mood?" Iarék asked. "The ambient romance spread throughout the air this afternoon? Doesn't it make you yearn for someone you could call your own?"

"Not really," Sheglock replied. "I'm just channelling the joy of my bother."

"I just feel compelled to act on it!"

"Act away, then? Who do you have your eyes on?"

Iarék hesitated, struggling to say something. "Willyoumarryme?" he spluttered.

"Pardon?"

"Will you marry me?"

A silence followed. Not one of those peaceful, relaxing silences, but a tense awkward one. Sheglock knew them too well. Had it been night, he would have heard, quite clearly, the crickets chirping.

Of course, he was only thinking all this to avoid thinking about the real problem. That was: how to maintain their friendship whilst denting the request. He was startled by it, and for a moment struck dumb. He had known, or at least suspected, that Iarék was gay. But he had never realized that his friend had seen _him _as a potential husband…

Iarék was looking crushed as the silence lengthened. Sheglock quickly stammered a reply.

"Er – I'm not gay!"

"Why not?" Iarék asked in a small voice. "Best friends make the best partners."

"I love you, Iarék," Sheglock explained, but quickly corrected himself. "But not in that way. You know that there are many forms of love. Love of friends, love of an ideal, even loyalty to one's rulers and masters. But none of these are the same as romantic love. Romantic love is different. It's not for us, friend."

"We're so alike!"

"They say opposites attract."

"What of your brother?"

Sheglock sighed. "Look. It's nothing about you, as a person! You're not a girl. I'm just not attracted to guys. I can't be! It's just the way I am!"

"It's sexism," Iarék pointed out. Sheglock fancied there was some accusation behind the comment. He sighed inwardly – it had not worked out as he had hoped.

"Are _you_ attracted to _girls_?"

"No, but…"

"Look, I don't want to lose you. But you are being entirely unreasonable! Do you see the hypocrisy? I want to be your _friend_, but no more. Call it sexism, or what you want. But be consoled that I'm not rejecting you because I think we are incompatible."

His voice was low. "It was the perfect opportunity."

"You'll find the perfect partner in a short time," Sheglock promised.

Iarék stared down at his toes. "Whatever you say," he muttered.

"Come on – let's get back to the party." To his surprise Iarék pulled his head up and nodded, and then followed Sheglock back, looking like he was fine. Sheglock let out a sigh of relief.

The relief was short lived. Too soon, Sheglock began to feel uncomfortable around his friend. Each glance he felt probed in ways he could not appreciate, and he began to feel uncomfortable even in his own house. He found he was checking his back far too often. Each time Iarék's skin touched his own he jerked back, not before seeing an involuntary smile cross the other's face. Soon Iarék noticed his discomfort, and became more formal with him. Some evenings hence he announced that he was moving out, and went to live in Ulûrk's deserted house. Sheglock was melancholy, though he tried to hide it, and bask instead in his brother's happiness. But he knew things would never be the same…


	60. Chapter 60

**XI**

**Firri**

Firri had expected her time with Morrick to be pure bliss, and that first night it was, as they found consolation in each other's arms. As she lay there in bed, his warm body by her side, she felt a potent wish for this night to be eternal – a desire for the dawn to never arrive.

But it did, and she arose, shaking Morrick to no avail. Eventually he awoke, though by his own accord, and they travelled together to the empty kitchen. Morrick sighed, and even before he spoke she knew it was not going to be anything romantic.

"Honey, you need a job."

She paused a minute to let the real world sink back in. "I know. I've been looking." And it was way too true. Ever since their return from Barad-dûr, she had searched extensively. No one had wanted to take her.

But with Morrick's urging, and his hand on her shoulder, she was ready to try again.

Morrick also demanded that Sheglock find new work. "Anything that puts bread on the table," Firri overheard him telling his brother. "Or better, meat."

"What type of job should I look for?" Firri asked him.

Morrick smiled. "One where you're in charge, making the decisions."

"I'll make bad decisions!"

"You can't screw up Garkhôn worse than it already is," Morrick pointed out. "We have no water, little food, and utter anarchy."

"They were supposed to be digging the well deeper."

"Are they?"

"Well, no." Firri shrugged. There was still the water that had already been drawn out of the well. It would last for several weeks.

"Why do you think no one is doing the job?" Morrick asked.

"They don't need to, yet. There still is some water in town."

"Five orcs died of dehydration yesterday. I know because their relatives were selling their flesh in the market, in exchange for – guess what? No, it needs to be done."

"I would think need would drive them to do it. That's kinda the way I imagined it. They procrastinate until they're almost dead, and then…"

"Even then they wouldn't succeed. Each orc would try and deepen his or her own well, but none of them would manage to reach the water level. The only way to survive is to have a group work together, as a team, to dig deep enough. But these orcs, they can't organise themselves. They need a leader. Someone who knows what she's doing, to command them."

"You don't mean me, right?" Firri asked. She was apprehensive. Somehow, Morrick had latched onto the idea of her as leader just as she was discovering just how unfit she was to lead.

"Of course I do! You could literally save our town."

"I don't want to lead."

Morrick smirked. "Which is exactly why you should feel obligated to do so. Those least willing to lead oft make the best leaders."

"I wouldn't even know how to take command."

"Come on."

He got up and headed outside. Firri followed, somewhat reluctantly. The memories of the disaster in Dorezátz were fresh on her mind.

They went the long way to avoid Bokluk, and in an hour arrived at the plaza. There were more orcs than usual selling food, but only food. Water was nowhere to be found.

A group of five orcs was idling around the well, while one was digging. Even as they approached, he clambered out of the well, and set down the shovel against its side.

"Are not ye folks going to work? We are all obligated to do what is right."

"Fer ourselves, Kazrînk. Not fer ya," one of the others muttered. "Why should we bother, 'less we're gonna charge fer use o' this well when we're done?"

"We are obligated to help our fellow townsfolk."

"That's bullshit," another orc muttered. Morrick crossed over to them, taking Firri by the hand and firmly guiding her.

"Who's in charge here?"

"That is I," the orc referred to as Kazrînk answered, leaning on his shovel.

"This is Firri, your supervisor," he announced. Several of the orcs, including Kazrînk, looked up at her incredulously.

"She is a woman," he said, as if that made her incompetent. Firri was enraged. She hated how so many orcs came so quickly to that conclusion. One of the things she had really admired in Sauron had been his impartiality, and gender-blindness. He had not discriminated against women. If you could serve, you could serve, and she had been readily accepted as a tracker. Now, however, he was gone, and only these stubborn orcs remained.

"I'm perfectly capable," Firri retorted.

Kazrînk smiled condescendingly. "So am I, madam."

"If this isn't dug in two days, I'm coming back," Morrick threatened. Kazrînk glared at him.

"Thou, sir, shalt not return. I forbid it. And if thou darest, thou shalt have thyself another enemy."

"You have no authority over me," Morrick returned. "Until Garkhôn gets a leader, we can all do whatever we want."

"Such is a poor way for society to function," Kazrînk remarked.

"I agree with you on that point," Morrick said with a nod. "Come on, Firri, let's find you a better job."

Firri, however, had given up trying, and after a few minutes Morrick seemed to notice this, and simply led her home. They went by Bokluk's Pass for expediency. Firri only longed to get away from all the sexism and injustice of the town. She hadn't really experienced it before, at least not to the same degree. Orcs had always grumbled about her being a woman, but they had never actually forbidden her to work.

But at Bokluk's tollbooth, their slow retreat was halted. Bokluk stood facing several armed orcs, and at their head stood none other than Captain Khentz himself.

"Did you not hear me? Or did you not understand?"

"I heard ya," Bokluk muttered, in what could have been either fear or anger – Firri couldn't tell.

"Ah," the captain said. "Then it is a matter of miscomprehension. Let me explain clearly what 'you cannot do this' means."

"I know what it means," Bokluk said, regaining his bravado. "But why not?"

"Here in Garkhôn, you can't just bully people around," he said, Firri felt, hypocritically.

"I need food."

"Well, I forbid you to block this road. Now let me through."

Bokluk gulped, then eyed the crowd of spectators that had gathered around him. Firri fancied she knew what was going on in his mind. If he relented to the captain, everyone else would demand free passage.

"You have to pay."

"Kill him," Captain Khentz said emotionlessly to one of the soldiers. He stepped forward and drew his sword. He pointed it downward and rose for the swing.

"Mercy!" pleaded Bokluk. The soldier stopped and looked up at Khentz, unsure.

"Do you need speech lessons too?" the captain asked furiously. "What part of 'kill him' don't you understand?"

The sword flashed, and Bokluk's head lay beside him on the dirt. Khentz stared down at it in satisfaction, then at the shaking soldier in disdain. "Good boy," he muttered patronizingly, as though to a warg. Then he marched off into town, his three soldiers following. The spectators just stood there in shock.

"Let's go," Morrick said, recovering.

Firri looked up from the body, which was still bleeding. "Was that the logical thing to do?"

"No. He should've taken the meat as well. Let's go."

Firri sighed, and looked back at the body. Someone was already dragging it off. Just as she looked, another orc jumped out behind him and stabbed him in the neck. He crumpled and fell.

"They're mine! Both of 'em!"

"Go!" Morrick muttered, pulling on her arm. Reluctantly, Firri turned her eyes from the scene. She was horrified, but in awe.

As they left, running, she heard more yells, and the clash of blades. Morrick led her away, and did not stop running until they reached the house. He led her inside, locked the door, and slammed the window, locking that too.

"What?"

"I'm afraid there will be a riot. We want to stay inconspicuous."

"A riot?"

"Damn – the well will never get finished now! We're going to die, and it's all because people are forced to make their own decisions. Freedom is Garkhôn's bane! With everyone making their own, self-serving decisions, and no one to unite them, no one to command them."

"I doubt it's as bad as you are making it."

"It is," he replied heavily."

"What happened?" Sheglock asked. Firri explained. Morrick hung his head and said nothing.

After Firri had finished, Sheglock bowed his head. "How many died?"

"I saw two: Bokluk and the other guy, but there were likely more."

"We'll see when it ends," Morrick muttered. "But until then, we should avoid town."

"What about Iarék?" Sheglock asked. "He's all alone."

"Invite him back, if you want," Morrick said disinterestedly. "One more orc to feed."

Sheglock ignored (or didn't notice) the sarcasm, and hurried off toward Iarék's house, which had apparently once been Ulûrk's. Firri actually didn't know where it was. She didn't much care. All she wanted was to be alone with Morrick, in a country far from Mordor. One where there was stability without, and nothing in her life but Morrick and her love.

"Well," Morrick said, crossing over to Firri and wrapping his arms around her, dragging her back into the reality that was just starting to smoke on the horizon. "Now we just wait and see…


End file.
